“Well—we’ve a week then, boys,” he said cheerfully, “and no anxieties immediately before us except the new cook-ladies.”
“Well, goodness knows they are enough,” Norah said fervently.
“Anything more settled?” Jim asked.
“I have an ecstatic letter from Allenby.” Allenby was the ex-sergeant. “He seems in a condition of trembling joy at the prospect of being our butler; and, what is more to the point, he says he has a niece whom he can recommend as a housemaid. So I have told him to instal her before we get to Homewood on Thursday. Hawkins has written a three-volume list of things he will require for the farm, but I haven’t had time to study it yet. And Norah has had letters from nineteen registry-offices, all asking for a deposit!”
The boys roared.
“That makes seventy-one, doesn’t it, Nor?” Wally asked.
“Something like it,” Norah admitted ruefully. “And the beauty of it is, not one of them will guarantee so much as a kitchenmaid. They say sadly that ‘in the present crisis’ it’s difficult to supply servants. They don’t seem to think there’s any difficulty about paying them deposit-fees.”
“That phrase, ‘in the present crisis,’ is the backbone of business to-day,” Mr. Linton said. “If a shop can’t sell you anything, or if they mislay your property, or sell your purchase to some one else, or keep your repairs six months and then lose them, or send in your account with a lot of items you never ordered or received, they simply wave ‘the present crisis’ at you, and all is well.”
“Yes, but they don’t regard it as any excuse if you pay too little, or don’t pay at all,” Jim said.
“Of course not—that wouldn’t be business, my son,” said Wally, laughing. “The one department the Crisis doesn’t hit is the one that sends out bills.” He turned to Norah. “What about the cook-lady, Nor?”