“Ay—ay—how’s that?” said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.
“Why, it doesn’t seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me have a lease of it.”
The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several weeks. “And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to ask your advice about it!”
Tom’s face flushed suddenly. “And do you really think of selling Knockley Holt?” he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the Squire’s face more keenly than usual.
“Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn’t have said what I have said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to me than the land is ever likely to be. It won’t fetch much I know, but then I didn’t give much for it, and whoever may get it won’t have much of a bargain.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t object to have me for a purchaser?”
“You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I should want money down, and—— But I needn’t say more about it.”
“If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve hundred pounds for it, cash down.”
The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at anything that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a moment or two in blank amazement.
“Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!” were his first words. “And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve hundred pounds?”