“No, Musters, what is it? Get a clean glass and tell me about it.”
“He’s to resign, sir, I hear. And his son is to stand.”
“Why?”
“Along o’ this about Sir Robert Peel, I understand. They have it that Sir Robert’s going to repeal the corn taxes—some say that he’s been for it all through, and some talk about a potato failure. Mr. Mottisfont sees that that’ll never do for Riddsley, but he don’t want to part from his leader, after following him all these years; so he’ll go out and the young gentleman will take his place.”
“Do you think it is true about Peel?”
“They’re saying it, and Mr. Stubbs, he believes it. But it’ll never go down in Riddsley, Squire. We’re horn and corn men here, two to one of us. There’s just the two small factories on the other side, and most of the hands haven’t votes. But here’s Mr. Stubbs himself.”
The lawyer had looked into the room in passing. Seeing Basset he removed his hat. “Pardon, Squire,” he said. “I did not know that you were here.”
“Not at all,” Basset answered. He knew the lawyer locally, and had seen him often—at arm’s length—in the peerage suit. “Will you take a glass of wine with me?”
Stubbs said that he would with pleasure, if he might take it standing—his time was short. The landlord was for withdrawing, but Stubbs detained him. “No, John, with Mr. Basset’s leave I’ve a bone to pick with you,” he said. “Who are these men who are staying here?”
Musters’s face fell. “Lord, Mr. Stubbs,” he said, “have you heard of them?”