“The tenant is dead, and I want you to let it to a friend of mine; I'll take care the rent is paid.”
Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. He gave a sharp look at Tom; and then bent over the table, made a stroke, and said, “Ah, I heard the old woman was dead. Who's your friend, then?”
“Well, I mean her son,” said Tom, somewhat embarrassed; “he's an active young fellow, and will make a good tenant; I'm sure.”
“I daresay,” said Mr. Wurley, with a leer; “and I suppose there's a sister to keep house for him, eh?”
“No, but he wants to get married.”
“Wants to get married, eh?” said Mr. Wurley, with another leer and oath. “You're right; that's a deal safer kind of thing for you.”
“Yes,” said Tom, resolutely disregarding the insinuation, which he could not help feeling was intended; “it will keep him steady, and if he can get the cottage it might make all the difference. There wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, I dare say.”
“You'll find it a devilish long way. You're quite right, mind you, not to get them settled close at home; but Englebourn is too far, I should say.”
“What does it matter to me?”
“Oh, you're tired of her! I see. Perhaps it won't be too far, then.”