ster
continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to
interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had
had his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in
this way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to know
whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that
point Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived
previous to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants and
artisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their
only schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this
subject, Bartle always replied, "Oh, I've seen many places--I've been a
deal in the south," and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of
asking for a particular town or village in Africa as in "the south."

"Now then, my boy," said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his
second mug of ale and lighted his pipe, "now then, we'll have a little
talk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news to-day?"

"No," said Adam, "not as I remember."

"Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But I
found it out by chance; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, else
I'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid."

Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly
the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion of
keeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting
it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he
said, "Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the lad
they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock this
morning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if he gets
over it."

"Well," said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow
in the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing,
mischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so much
harm to as to th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is to
blame--making a stupid fellow like that a sort o' man-of-all-work, just
to save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate.
And he's lost more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than
'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be hoped
he'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make
any difference to me.