Denny thought it was time somebody cracked a bit about the present Mr. Lancaster. He himself was a younger man who hadn’t farmed under the former agent, but at least he could say he wasn’t wanting any better sort than he’d got! If the present Mr. Lancaster said the Lugg was all right, that was full stop and a lick for Thomas Cuthbert Dennison. As for the duke who was shaping to farm Thweng in a Trilby, he’d likely hit upon a thing or two he didn’t know if he lived long enough and looked hard. Even he, Denny, could happen learn him a bit about sowing corn an’ such-like, and there was more than one of them on the spot who could give him a leg-up over pigs. There was a roar at this, for Brack had a patent drill that sowed each seed separately--so separately that, when the grain came up, you could walk between the stems; and there was also a tale that he had given his pigs water used for boiling hams, with horrible results. Even Bluecaster’s presence could not restrain the general joy, and there was not much of Brack’s moderation left when he rose to his final effort. “You’ve only one argument in your whole outfit!” he raged at them bitterly, “and that’s the old, threadbare wheeze that because your fathers did a thing you’re bound to follow their trail. It makes me tired to see the lot of you--narrow, ignorant stick-in-the-ditchers--sitting round with your mouths and ears open for any old thing a Lancaster may choose to pour in! You’ve got that durned Lugg fixed in your minds as a kind of monument to your late agent. Well, I guess you’re right in one way. It _is_ a monument, sure--a monument to the biggest piece of swank, the rankest self-conceit I ever struck! Look at the Pride! You’ll say it’s as safe as Bytham Knott, and yet there’s nobody will live in it. They try, but they can’t stand it out--and why? Because they know the man that built it laughed in the Face of God! You say he was a good man, a just man, but _I_ say he was a theatrical guy, with an eye on the gallery and swank fit to jump the earth! I tell you I’ve my own reasons for knowing what’s coming--coming on the hop--and there’s somebody sure going to get left. Right now’s the time to pull out, if you’d only listen! But you won’t. You’re too deep in your dusty old beliefs for that. But you’ll listen, you may bet your life, and _remember_, in the night when the sea comes knocking at your door!” There had been silence through his speech, the silence of outrage, and there was still silence when he stopped. His strange eyes looked singularly bright and compelling. Lanty stared curiously at him during the pause, and followed his glance, the men round him doing the same. Brack was looking at Bluecaster.