A year’s rent in advance is always tempting to a landlord—especially a poor one. McTavish was not rich, whatever might be his prospects in regard to the presidency of the bank.
His wife would have given something to have had his ear at the opposite orifice of the keyhole; so that she could have whispered “Take it?”
“How much, you ask, for the house furnished, and by the year?”
“Precisely so,” answered the stranger.
“Let me see,” answered McTavish, reflecting. “My own rent unfurnished—repairs covenanted in the lease—price of the furniture—interest thereon—well, I could say two hundred pounds per annum.”
“I’ll take it at two hundred. Do you agree to that?”
The bank clerk was electrified with delight. Two hundred pounds a year would be cent-per-cent on his own outlay. Besides he would get rid of the premises, for at least one year, and along with them the proximity of his detestable neighbours. Any sacrifice to escape from this.
He would have let go house and grounds at half the price.
But he, the stranger, was not cunning, and McTavish was shrewd. Seeing this, he not only adhered to the two hundred, but stipulated for the removal of some portion of his furniture.
“Only a few family pieces,” he said; “things that a tenant would not care to be troubled with.”