This plain revelation of the state of things at Morwick Farm rather staggered me--blows and knives under the rich and respectable roof-tree of old Mr. Meadowcroft--blows and knives, not among the laborers, but among the masters! My first impression was like _your_ first impression, no doubt. I could hardly believe it. “Are you sure of what you say?” I inquired. “I have it from Ambrose. Ambrose would never deceive me. Ambrose knows all about it.” My curiosity was powerfully excited. To what sort of household had I rashly voyaged across the ocean in search of rest and quiet? “May I know all about it too?” I said. “Well, I will try and tell you what Ambrose told me. But you must promise me one thing first, sir. Promise you won’t go away and leave us when you know the whole truth. Shake hands on it, Mr. Lefrank; come, shake hands on it.” There was no resisting her fearless frankness. I shook hands on it. Naomi entered on her narrative the moment I had given her my pledge, without wasting a word by way of preface. “When you are shown over the farm here,” she began, “you will see that it is really two farms in one. On this side of it, as we look from under this tree, they raise crops: on the other side--on much the larger half of the land, mind--they raise cattle. When Mr. Meadowcroft got too old and too sick to look after his farm himself, the boys (I mean Ambrose and Silas) divided the work between them. Ambrose looked after the crops, and Silas after the cattle. Things didn’t go well, somehow, under their management. I can’t tell you why. I am only sure Ambrose was not in fault. The old man got more and more dissatisfied, especially about his beasts. His pride is in his beasts. Without saying a word to the boys, he looked about privately (_I_ think he was wrong in that, sir; don’t you?)--he looked about privately for help; and, in an evil hour, he heard of John Jago. Do you like John Jago, Mr. Lefrank?” “So far, no. I don’t like him.”