"I always heard that Jackson was a flourishing place," said Frank, who felt that now was his time to obtain a little information.
"It ought to be," said the farmer; "but there's one thing prevents."
"What is that?"
"A good deal of our village is owned by a New York man, to whom we have to pay rent. He has a rascally agent—a Mr. Fairfield—who grinds us down by his exactions, and does what he can to keep, us in debt."
"Has he always been agent?"
"No. Before he came there was an excellent man—a Mr. Sampson—who treated us fairly, contented himself with exacting rents which we could pay, and if a man were unlucky, would wait a reasonable time for him to pay. Then we got along comfortably. But he died, and this man was sent out in his place. Then commenced a new state of things. He immediately raised the rents; demanded that they should be paid on the day they were due, and made himself harsh and tyrannical."
"Do you think the man who employs him knows how he is conducting his agency?" Frank inquired.
"No; there is no one to tell him. I suppose Mr. Fairfield tells him a smooth story, and he believes it. I am afraid we can hope for no relief."
"What would he say," thought Frank, "if he knew I were a messenger from Mr. Percival?"
"What sort of a man is this Mr. Fairfield in private life?" he asked.