Miser Farebrother (Vol. 1-3). B. L. Farjeon

Farebrother put the pistol into his pocket, and the lad began to whimper.

      "Do you know I could take your life, could lawfully take it," said Miser Farebrother, "for breaking into my house as you have done, and sleeping upon my bed?"

      "Yes, your honour; but please don't! I didn't break into the house. The door was open."

      "Stop that crying."

      "Yes, your honour."

      And the lad, in default of a handkerchief, dug his knuckles into his eyes. A lad of resource and some decision of character, he cried no more. This fact was not lost upon Miser Farebrother.

      "You did not break into the house, you say?"

      "No, your honour; upon my soul I didn't!"

      "And you found the door open?"

      "Yes, your honour."

      "Which door?"

      "The kitchen door, your honour."

      "How long have you been here?"

      "Three days, your honour."

      This piece of information rather confounded Miser Farebrother, who, himself an interloper, was feeling his way; but he was politic enough not to betray himself.

      "Three days, eh—and not yet caught?"

      "Nobody wants to ketch me, your honour."

      "Not your father and mother?"

      "Ain't got none, your honour."

      "Somebody else, then, in their place?"

      "There ain't nobody in their place. There ain't a soul that's got a call to lay a hand upon me."

      "Except me."

      "Yes, your honour," said the lad, humbly: "but I didn't know."

      His complete subservience and humbleness had an effect upon Miser Farebrother. He judged others by himself—a common enough standard among mortals—and he was not the man to trust to mere words; but there was a semblance of truth in the manner of the lad which staggered him. In all England it would have been difficult to find a man less given to sentiment, and less likely to be led by it, but the lad's conspicuous helplessness, and his ingenuous blue eyes—which, now that the pistol was put away, looked frankly at the miser—no less than his own scheme of taking possession of Parksides by stealth and in secrecy, were elements in favour of this lad, so strangely found in so strange a situation. A claim upon Parksides Miser Farebrother undoubtedly possessed; he held papers, in the shape of liens upon complicated mortgages, which he had purchased for a song; but he had something more than a latent suspicion that the law's final verdict was necessary to establish the validity and exact value of his claim. This he had not sought to obtain, knowing that it would have led him into ruinous expense and probable failure. These circumstances were the breeders of an uneasy consciousness that he and the lad, in their right to occupy Parksides, were somewhat upon an equality. Hence it was necessary to be cautious, and to feel his way, as it were.

      "Where are your people?" he asked.

      The lad stared at him.

      "My people!"

      "Your people," repeated Miser Farebrother. "Where you live, you know."

      "Ain't got no people," said the lad. "Don't live nowhere."

      "Listen to me, you young scoundrel," said Miser Farebrother, shaking a menacing forefinger at him; "if you're trying to impose upon me by a parcel of lies, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. As sure as I'm the master of this house, I'll have you locked up and fed upon stones and water for the rest of your life."

      "I ain't trying to impose upon you," persisted the lad, speaking very earnestly; "I ain't telling you a parcel of lies. Look here, your honour, have you got a book?"

      "What book?"

      "I don't care what book—any book! Give it me, and I'll kiss it, and swear on it that I've told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

      "You'll have to tell something more of yourself before I've done with you. Where did you live before you lived nowhere?"

      "Hailsham, your honour."

      "Where's that?"

      "Don't know, your honour."

      "How far from here?"

      "Six days, your honour."

      "None of your nonsense. How far?"

      "Couldn't tell to a yard, if you was to skin me alive. It took me six days to git here."

      "You walked?"

      "Yes, your honour; every step of the way."

      "Who did you live with at Hailsham?"

      "Mother."

      "You said you had none."

      "More I have. She's dead."

      "Father too?"

      "Yes; ever so long ago."

      "What brought you here?"

      "My legs."

      Miser Farebrother restrained his anger—for which there was no sound reason, the lad's manner being perfectly respectful.

      "What did you come here for?"

      "To see grandfather. I heerd mother talk of him and grandmother ever so many times, and that they lived down here; so when she was buried I thought I might do worse than come and see 'em."

      "Have you seen them?"

      "No, your honour; they're dead too." The lad added, mournfully, "Everybody's dead, I think."

      "They lived down here, you say?"

      "Yes; 'most all their lives; in this fine house. They was taking care of it for the master."

      Some understanding of the situation dawned upon Miser Farebrother, and a dim idea that it might be turned to his use and profit.

      "What was their name?"

      "Barley, your honour. That's my name, Tom Barley; and if you'd give me a job I'd be everlastingly thankful."

      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