Fishpingle might have been repeating the Apostles’ Creed, as he answered solemnly: “’Tis the backbone of England, Master Lionel. I’ve always thought that. And it ought to supply the nation with all the food it needs, and more too. We’ve ceased to be an island. Everybody admits it. Yes, I believe in the land.” “Do you believe in the landowners?” “In some of them.” He sighed; lines puckered his face. He held out his hands, palms upward, as if he were weighing landowners, and finding the weight short. Lionel said reflectively: “You’ve answered my question. I ought to leave the army and put myself under Mr. Moxon.” “Mr.—Moxon?” “Didn’t you know? He’s an expert, grappling with this very problem. He gave the Squire some priceless tips, but will he take ’em?” Fishpingle shook his head. Lionel assumed a more cheerful manner and deportment. “This talk has cleared the air. I haven’t wasted my time this morning. I shall tackle my father next.” “Not to-day, Master Lionel.” “Why not?” the young man asked impatiently. “Does he think I’m going to waste all my leave playing tennis and fishing?” “Go slow!” counselled the sage. “You can’t rush the Squire. Mr. Moxon, if he is an expert, would tell you to read up the subject, to—to see the thing as a whole, to find out what is ahead of you, Master Lionel.” Lionel’s face darkened again. He said moodily: “I’m such a mug that I don’t even know the title of one book dealing with land in an up-to-date way.” “I could lend you some books and pamphlets.” “You?” Fishpingle rose and went to his bureau. Out of a drawer he selected two books and half a dozen pamphlets. “This bangs Banagher!” exclaimed Lionel, as he glanced at the titles. “Upon my soul, you’re a wonder! But, you sly old fox, you don’t keep these in the bookcase. And I promise you that I shan’t leave ’em lying about in father’s room.” “Thank you, Master Lionel. Some of the pamphlets are one-sided. You must salt ’em. But the stuff you want is there.” “Hot stuff, too!” He glanced at one of the pamphlets. “Sport isn’t spared, I see.” He read aloud a title— “‘_Tyranny of Sport._’ Is sport a tyranny?” “Sometimes. You know more about it than the man who wrote that pamphlet. But he gives his views. Lots of people think as he does. When you’ve read all that, Master Lionel, it will be time enough to talk to Sir Geoffrey.” Lionel tucked the books under his arm and stuffed the thin pamphlets into his coat pocket. “You’re right, as usual, old chap.” He held out his hand, with a delightful smile. “You know, I look upon you as a sort of second father. Many thanks.” Fishpingle listened to his firm step, as he strode down the stone-flagged passage, whistling “Garryowen.” Then he crossed to the hearth, staring long and frowningly, not at the photographs of Squire and son, but at the gracious, tender face of Lady Pomfret. * * * * * CHAPTER IX