“He did. And in a thundering temper my lord looked.”
“Ay, ay! Well I told him how it would be.”
“They were going in and out like bees, George said.”
“Ay, ay.”
They parted on that, and the lawyer went into his office. But his face was gloomy. “Ay, like bees!” he muttered. “After the honey! I wonder what he asked for! Whatever it was he couldn’t have paid the price! I thought he knew that. I’ve a good mind—but there, we’ve held it so long, grandfather, father, and son—I can’t afford to give it up.”
He turned into his office, but the day was spoiled for him. And the day was not done yet. He had barely sat down before his clerk a thin, gray-haired man, high-nosed, with a look of breeding run to seed, came in, and closed the door behind him. Farthingale was as well known in Riddsley as the Maypole; gossip had it that he was a by-blow of an old name. “I’ve heard something,” he said darkly, “and the sooner you know it the better. They’ve got a man.”
Stubbs shrugged his shoulders. “For repeal in Riddsley?” he said. “You’re dreaming.”
The clerk smiled. “Well, you’d best be awake,” he said. He had been long enough with Stubbs to take a liberty. “Who do you think it is?” he continued, rubbing his chin with the feather-end of a quill.
“Some methodist parson!”
Farthingale shook his head. “Guess again, sir,” he said. “You’re cold at present. It’s a bird of another feather.”