“COBBLER” HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD.

The day following his trip to London “Cobbler” Horn paid a visit to his landlord. His purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. Though he realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use of the one in which he had lived so long. The humble cottage was endeared to him by many ties. Here the best part of his life had been passed. Here his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious wife had died. Of this house his darling little Marian had been the light and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. These memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make the house absolutely his own.

“Cobbler” Horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the house. He simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour; and, though Miss Jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart unquestioned.

“Cobbler” Horn’s landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. As “Cobbler” Horn pursued his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving, the chances that his errand would succeed. He knew his landlord to be a man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise, he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step, he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord’s house.

The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet comprehensive legend:

“D.FROUD,
Dealer.”

The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows were dim with the dust of many years.

The door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether Mr. Froud was in, answered in an injured tone, “Yes, he was in; he always was;” and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. The room was very dark, and it was some time before “Cobbler” Horn could observe the nature of his surroundings. But, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. There stood against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of drawers. Facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. The walls and chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. The paper on the walls was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. On the chimney-piece were several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment of similar odds and ends. The only provision for the comfort of visitors consisted of two battered wooden chairs.

At first “Cobbler” Horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name.

“Well, it’s not rent day yet. What’s your errand?”

It was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and fire-place, peering in which direction, “Cobbler” Horn perceived dimly the figure of the man he had come to see. Mr. Daniel Froud had turned around from a high desk at which he had been writing in the gloom. How he contrived to see in so dark a corner was a mystery which belonged to the wider question as to the penetrating power of vision in general which he was known to possess. The small boys of the neighbourhood declared that he could see in the dark like a cat. He now moved a step nearer to “Cobbler” Horn, and stood revealed, an elderly, and rather undersized, grizzled, gnarled, and knotted man, dressed in shabby and antiquated clothes.

“Good morning, Mr. Froud,” said “Cobbler” Horn, extending his hand, “I’ve come to see you on a little business.”

“Of course you have,” was the angry retort; and taking no notice of his visitor’s proffered hand, the man stamped his foot impatiently on the uncarpeted floor. “No one ever comes to see me about anything else but business. And I don’t want them to,” he added with a grim chuckle. “Well, let us get it done. My time is valuable, if yours is not.”

“My time also is not without value,” was the prompt reply. “I want to ask you, Mr. Froud, if you will sell me the house in which I live.”

If Daniel Froud was surprised, he completely concealed the fact.

“If I would sell it,” was his coarse rejoinder, “you, ‘Cobbler’ Horn, would not be able to buy it.”

“I am well able to buy the house, Mr. Froud,” was the quiet response.

Daniel Froud keenly scrutinized his visitor’s face.

“I believe you think you are telling the truth,” he said. “Mending pauper’s boots and shoes must be a profitable business, then?”

“I have had some money left to me,” said “Cobbler” Horn.

The interest of Daniel Froud was awakened at once.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that is it, is it? But sit down, Mr. Horn,” and the grizzled reprobate pushed towards his visitor, who had hitherto remained standing, one of his rickety and dust-covered chairs.

“Cobbler” Horn looked doubtfully at the proffered seat, and said that he preferred to stand.

“If you are willing to sell me the house, Mr. Froud,” he said, “name your price. It is not my intention to waste your time.”

Daniel Froud still pondered. It was no longer a question whether he should sell “Cobbler” Horn the house: he was beginning already to consider how much he should ask for it.

“So you really wish to buy the house, Mr. Horn?” he asked.

“Such is my desire.”

“And you think you can pay the price?”

“I have little doubt on that point.”

“Well”—with a sudden jerk forward of his forbidding face—“what do you say to £600?”

Unsophisticated as he was, “Cobbler” Horn felt that the proposal was exorbitant.

“You are surely joking?” he said.

“You think the price too small?”

“I consider it much too large.”

“Well, perhaps I was joking, as you said. What do you think of £500?”

“I’m afraid even that is too much. I’ll give you £450.”

Daniel Froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, “Well, I’ll take your offer, Mr. Horn; but it’s a dreadful sacrifice.”

A few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his departure, “Cobbler” Horn administered a word of admonition to his grasping landlord.

“Don’t you know, friend,” he said, “that it is a grievous sin to try to sell anything for more than it is worth? And how contemptible it is to be so greedy of money! It does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be doing you. Good morning, friend; and God give you repentance.”

Mr. Froud had listened open-mouthed to this plain-spoken homily. When he came to himself, he darted forward, and aimed a blow with his fist, which just failed to strike the back of his visitor, who was in the act of leaving the room.

Confronting him in the doorway was the old crone who kept his house.

“Was that Horn, the shoemaker?” she asked.

“Yes, woman.”

“Horn as has just come into the fortune?”

“Well—somewhat.”

“‘Somewhat!’ It’s said to be about a million of money! Look here!” and she showed him a begrimed and crumpled scrap of newspaper, containing a full account of “Cobbler” Horn’s fortune.

With a cry, Daniel Froud seized the woman, and shook her till it almost seemed as though the bones rattled in her skin.

“You hell-cat! Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

The wretched creature fell back panting against the door on the opposite side of the passage.

“Daniel Froud,” she said, when she had sufficiently recovered her breath, “the next time you do that I shall give you notice.”

With which dreadful threat, she gathered herself together, and hobbled back to her own quarter of the dingy house, leaving Mr. Froud to bemoan the absurdly easy terms he had made with “the Golden Shoemaker.”

“If I had only known!” he moaned; “if I had only known!”

That evening “Cobbler” Horn told his sister what he had done, and why he had done it; and she held up her hands in dismay.

“First,” she said, “I don’t see why you should have bought the house at all; and, secondly, you have paid far more for it than it is worth.”