“Not a pound too much; but come—we’ll say eight.”
“I reckon I’d thought five.”
“Five! pshaw! It’s dirt cheap to you at eight.”
“Why to me, sir?”
“Why, because the new rector will want to rebuild both cattle-shed and linney, and he’ll have to go to you for timber.”
“But suppose he don’t, and cuts down some on the glebe?”
“No, Spargo—not a bit. There at the winder, smelling to the jessamine, is the new rector’s adviser and agent. Go round by the front door into the garding, and say a word to him—you understand, and—” Mr. Scantlebray tapped his palm. “Do now go round and have a sniff of the jessamine, Mr. Spargo, and I don’t fancy Mr. Cargreen will advise the rector to use home-grown timber. He’ll tell him it sleeps away, gets the rot, comes more expensive in the long run.”
The valuer took a wing of chicken and a little ham, and then shouted, with his mouth full—“Come in!”
The door opened and admitted a farmer.
“How do, Mr. Joshua? middlin’?”