"None better!" chorussed his listeners.
"True! None better. Well, well! I'll just go up to the house and see if
I can be of any service, or—or comfort—-"
One of the men smiled darkly.
"Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn's as dead as door-nails. If so be you are a-goin' to Briar Farm, Mr. Medwin!" he said—"Why, you never set foot in the place while 'e was a livin' man!"
"Quite correct!" and Mr. Medwin nodded pleasantly—"I make it a rule never to go where I'm not wanted." He paused, impressively,—conscious that he had "scored." "But now that trouble has visited the house I consider it my duty to approach the fatherless and the afflicted. Good-day!"
He walked off then, treading ponderously and wearing a composed and serious demeanour. The men who had spoken with him were quickly joined by two or three others.
"Parson goin' to the Farm?" they enquired.
"Ay!"
"We'll 'ave gooseberries growin' on hayricks next!" declared a young, rough-featured fellow in a smock—"anythin' can 'appen now we've lost the last o' the Jocelyns!"
And such was the general impression throughout the district. Men met in the small public-houses and over their mugs of beer discussed the possibilities of emigrating to Canada or New Zealand, for—"there'll be no more farm work worth doin' round 'ere"—they all declared—"Mister Jocelyn wanted MEN, an' paid 'em well for workin' LIKE men!—but it'll all be machines now."