"That is young Owen himself coming up the path."
There was nothing particularly noticeable about the young man who a minute later was standing before them with his cap in his hand. He was plainly of the working class; and he had over his shoulder a bag of tools. He was dusty up to the knees with his long tramp. Mr. John gave him a word of welcome; and then the whole group went slowly together back to the house, with the two men following. Sir Thomas stumbled a little going up the two or three steps into the hall. Then they all sat down together; the servant put a big flagon and a horn tumbler beside the traveller, and went out, closing the doors.
"Now, my man," said Mr. John. "Do you eat and drink while I do the talking. I understand you are a man of your hands, and that you have business elsewhere."
"I must be in Lancashire by the end of the week, sir."
"Very well, then. We have business enough for you, God knows! This is Mistress Manners, whom you may have heard of. And after you have looked at the places we have here—you understand me?—Mistress Manners wants you at her house at Booth's Edge…. You have any papers?"
Owen leaned back and drew out a paper from his bag of tools.
"This is from Mr. Fenton, sir."
Mr. John glanced at the address; then he turned it over and broke the seal. He stared for a moment at the open sheet.
"Why, it is blank!" he said.
Owen smiled. He was a grave-looking lad of eighteen or nineteen years old; and his face lighted up very pleasantly.