He put the lantern back, and we walked on, turned the corner at my brook, and followed the other road along past my pines till we came to a small settlement of white cottages. At one of these Bert knocked. We were admitted by a pretty, blue-eyed Irish girl, who had a copy of Cæsar’s Commentaries in her hand, into a tiny parlour where an “airtight” stove stood below a coloured chromo of the Virgin and Child, and a middle-aged Irishman sat in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe.
“Hello, Mike,” said Bert, “this is Mr. John Upton, who’s bought Milt Noble’s place, an’ wants a farmer and gardener. I told him you wuz the man.”
“Sit down, sor, sit down,” said Mike, offering a chair with an expansive and hospitable gesture. “Sure, let’s talk it over.”
The pretty daughter had gone back to her Cæsar by the nickel oil lamp, but she had one ear toward us, and I caught a corner of her eye, too–an extremely attractive, not to say provocative, eye.
“Well, now,” Mike was saying, “sure I can run a farm, but what do I be gettin’ for it?”
“Fifty a month,” said I, “which includes milking the cows and tending furnace in winter.”
“Sure, I got more than that on me last place and no cows at all.”
“Ye’re a liar, Mike,” said Bert.
“That’s a fightin’ word in the ould country,” said Mike.
“This ain’t the old country, and yer got $45,” Bert grinned. “Besides, yer’ll be close to yer work. You wuz a mile an’ a half frum the Sulloways. Thet makes up fer the milkin’.”