Miser Farebrother, with his eyes fixed upon the lad's face, into which, in the remote prospect of a job, a wistful expression had stolen, considered for a few moments. Here was a lad who knew nobody in the neighbourhood and whom nobody knew, and who recognized in him the master of Parksides. In a few days he intended to enter into occupation, and he had decided not to bring a servant with him. Tom Barley would be useful, and was, indeed, just the kind of person he would have chosen to serve him in a rough way--a stranger, whose only knowledge of him was that he was the owner of Parksides; and no fear of blabbing, having nothing to blab about. He made up his mind. He took a little book from his pocket, the printed text of which was the calculation of interest upon ten pounds and upward for a day, for a week, for a month, for a year, at from five to fifty per cent. per annum. "Take this book in your hand and swear upon it that you have told me the truth." Tom Barley kissed the interest book solemnly, and duly registered the oath. "If I take you into my service," said Miser Farebrother, "will you serve me faithfully?" A sudden light of joy shone in Tom Barley's eyes. "Give me the book again, your honour, and I'll take my oath on it." "No," said Miser Farebrother. As a matter of fact, he had been glad to get the book back in his possession, not knowing yet whether Tom Barley could read, and being fearful that he might open it and discover its nature; "I'll be satisfied with your promise. But you can't sleep in the house, you know." "There's places outside, your honour; there's one where the horses was. That'll be good enough for me." "Quite good enough. How much money have you got?" "I had a penny when I reached here, your honour, but it's gone. I spent it in bread." "Is that all you've had to eat?" "No, your honour; I killed a rabbit." "Very well. I take you into my service, Tom Barley. Twopence a week, and you sleep outside. When you're a man I'll make your fortune if you do as you're told. What's to-day?" "Monday, your honour," said Tom Barley, now completely happy. "The church bells was ringing yesterday." "On Thursday night," said Miser Farebrother, "at between twelve and one o'clock, I shall be here with a cart. There will be a lady in it besides me, and--and--a child. You understand?" "Yes, your honour, I'm awake." "Be awake then, wide awake, or you will get in trouble. I shall want you to help get some things out of the cart. There will be a moon, and you will be able to see me drive up. Look out for me. Here's a penny on account of your first week's wages. You can buy some more bread with it, and if you like you can kill another rabbit. Was it good?" "Prime, your honour."