“I will see that that is embodied in Mr. Mottisfont’s address,” Stubbs continued. “There must be no mistake. These are queer times——”
“Sad times!” said the rector, shaking his head.
“Terrible times!” said the maltster, shaking his.
“Never did I dream I should live to see ’em,” said old Hayward. “’Tisn’t a month since a chap came on my land, ay, up to my very door, and said things—I’ll be damned if I did not think he’d turn the cream sour! And when I cried ‘Sam! fetch a pitchfork and rid me of this rubbish——’”
“I know, Hayward,” Stubbs said, cutting him short. “I know. You told me about it. You did very well. But to business. It shall be a short address—just that one point. We are all agreed, I think, gentlemen?”
All were agreed.
“I’ll see that it is printed in good time,” Stubbs continued. “I don’t think that we need trouble you further, Mr. Mottisfont. There’s a fat-stock sale this day fortnight. Perhaps you’ll dine and say a few words? I’ll let you know if it is necessary. There’ll be no opposition. Hatton will have a meeting at the Institute, but nothing will come of it.”
“That’s all then, is it?” said the London man, sticking his glass in his eye with a sigh of relief.
“That’s all,” Stubbs replied. “If you can attend this day fortnight so much the better. The farmers like it, and they’ve fourteen votes in the borough. Thank you, gentlemen, that’s all.”
“I think you’ve forgotten one thing, Mr. Stubbs,” said old Hayward, with a twinkle.