George accepted this deferentially, adding, as if in excuse: “I’d a mind to be a policeman, I had, bein’—so to speak —so fine a figger of a man, but policemen bain’t wanted in Nether-Applewhite.” “You say that as if you regretted it.” “’Tis tarnation dull here, Master Lionel.” An interminable discussion followed. The young men pursued many avocations, harvesting, cutting poles, bark-stripping, hurdling, and thatching. Month in and month out each could earn about eighteen shillings a week, a good wage in Wiltshire. They lived with their parents, but helped with the rent and paid board and lodging. So far as Lionel could gather, they were seeking change and amusement—livelier times. “You fellows won’t get that in Canada.” Western Canada had been mentioned as their future home. “Ah-h-h! Have ’ee bin back there, Master Lionel?” “No, but I know something about it. When the winter sets in, fifty degrees of frost, and you find yourselves frostbitten and forty miles from a doctor, you’ll be thinking of this snug cottage.” But none of them budged from his determination to leave England. George, who might be reckoned the fool of the family, said finally: “Us do hear tell there be no quality over there. Every tub a-stanin’ on its own bottom.” “You’ll be standing on your head, George.” Lionel returned to his father, rather discomfited. The Squire frowned, as he listened to his son’s report. “I’ll see ’em,” he declared. “Hounds that run riot must be rated.” “You told me to use tact.” Eventually, Fishpingle saw the brethren and persuaded them to remain in Nether-Applewhite. He elicited the truth. Two of the brothers were engaged to be married and wanted cottages. Bonsor had told them to remain single, because no cottages were vacant. Fishpingle promised them new cottages, whereat the Squire grumbled and growled. He said to Lionel: “Where is the money to come from?” Lionel winced, thinking of the draft on its way to India. The Squire tapped him on the shoulder— “Lionel, my boy, that nice little girl with something in her stocking is house-warming in my heart.” * * * * * Lionel nodded, not too enthusiastically. The Squire was so full of his plan for cancelling the family mortgage and rebuying the land sold by his grandfather that he could not keep it from Fishpingle. As a rule, they spent an hour together each morning, going over estate accounts which, properly considered, were Bonsor’s business. Fishpingle, however, had kept such accounts for fifteen years, burning much midnight oil over them. “Ben,” said the Squire, “that little lady is coming to us next week.” “You mean Lady Margot, Sir Geoffrey.” “I do. What d’ye think of her—hay?” “Very urban Sir Geoffrey.” “What d’ye call her? Urban? God bless my soul! What words you use! Where d’ye get your vocabulary from?” Fishpingle answered deprecatingly: “From you, Sir Geoffrey, from my lady, and from the dictionary.”