And one day, nearly two months after his visit to the bank—in the meantime he had been twice into town at the Bench—he was riding on the land with Fewtrell at his stirrup, when the bailiff told him that there was a stranger in the field.
“Which field?” he asked.
“Where they ha’ just lifted the turnips,” the man said. “Oh!” said the Squire. “Who is it? What’s he doing there?”
“Well, I’m thinking,” said Fewtrell, “as it’s the young gent I’ve seen here more ’n once. Same as asked me one day why we didn’t drill ’em in wider.”
“The devil, he did!” the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare, who was leaning over sleepily.
“Called ’em Radicals,” said Fewtrell, grinning. “Them there Radical Swedes,” says he. “Dunno what he meant. ‘If you plant Radicals, best plant ’em Radical fashion,’ says he.”
“Devil he did!” repeated the Squire. “Said that, did he?”
“Ay, to be sure. He used to come across with a gun field-way from Acherley; oh, as much as once a week I’d see him. And he’d know every crop as we put in, a’most same as I did. Very spry he was about it, I’ll say that.”
“Is it the banker’s son?” asked the Squire on a sudden suspicion.
“Well, I think he be,” Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. “He be going up to the house now.”