“There is the thing we can’t do—that spoils it all.”
“Yes, we can—deliver it here in the Teign. There is the Stover Canal—we can send it down by that and ship it all to Portsmouth right away.”
Pepperill was silent. This was indeed a rift in the cloud. “The only difficulty is not this—it is that we must have the timber sawn at Brimpts, and sent down and put on board in planks. They cannot freight a vessel with rude oak timber unsawn. Now I have a scheme—there is the river Dart pouring down its volumes of water of no good to anyone. Let us put up a saw-mill, and we shall have the oak run into planks and ready for transport in a jiffy.”
“And the cost?”
“Forty pounds.”
“Forty pounds?” roared Pasco, and thrust Quarm from him by a rude stroke on the shoulder. “Where am I to look for forty pence?”
“It is our only chance. I must agree to-morrow, or the thing is off. If I engage to saw up the timber and despatch it by water, we shall get a very tidy profit—not what we had hoped, but something. If I do not accept the offer, then I really do not see my way to disposing of the oak at all. The felling of the Okehampton Park oaks has spoiled the market in this country. Come, what say you, Pasco—shall I settle?”
“I cannot do it,” answered Pepperill, a cold sweat breaking out over his brow.
“There is an old mine wheel available. I can buy it for a song,” said Quarm.
“I have no money. Have I not told you that—or must I knock it into your brain with my fist—or the house key?” He raised his hand threateningly.