“This is Brookport,” said Mr Mariner. “That’s Haydock’s grocery store there by the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound for bacon, and I can get the same bacon by walking into Patchogue for fifty-seven!” He brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplified by the pirates of Brookport. “The very same bacon!” he said.
“How far is Patchogue?” asked Jill, feeling that some comment was required of her.
“Four miles,” said Mr Mariner.
They passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big, dark houses. The spectacle of these stimulated Mr Mariner to something approaching eloquence. He quoted the price paid for each, the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid five years ago. The recital carried them on for another mile, in the course of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and finally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, they turned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing by itself in a field.
“This is Sandringham,” said Mr Mariner.
“What!” said Jill. “What did you say?”
“Sandringham. Where we live. I got the name from your father. I remember him telling me there was a place called that in England.”
“There is.” Jill’s voice bubbled. “The King lives there.”
“Is that so?” said Mr Mariner. “Well, I bet he doesn’t have the trouble with help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fifty dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the furnace and chops wood. They’re all robbers. And if you kick they quit on you!”