IN NEED OF REPAIRS.

After dinner, “Cobbler” Horn set out with his agent on a tour of inspection through the village.

“We’ll take this row first, sir, if you please,” said Mr. Gray. “One of the people has sent for me to call.”

So saying he led the way towards a row of decrepit cottages which, with their dingy walls and black thatch, looked like a group of fungi, rather than a row of habitations erected by the hand of man.

At the crazy door of the first cottage they were confronted by a stout, red-faced woman with bare beefy arms, who, on seeing “Cobbler” Horn, dropped a curtsey, and suppressed the angry salutation which she had prepared for Mr. Gray.

“A friend of mine, Mrs. Blobs,” said the agent.

“Glad to see you, sir,” said the woman to “Cobbler” Horn. “Will you please to walk in, gentlemen.”

“Just cast your eye up there, Mr. Gray,” she added when they were inside. “It’s come through at last.”

Sure enough it had. Above their heads was a vast hole in the ceiling, and above that a huge gap in the thatch; and at their feet lay a heap of bricks, mortar, and fragments of rotten wood.

“Why the chimney has come through!” exclaimed Mr. Gray.

“Little doubt of that,” said Mrs. Blobs.

“Was anybody hurt?”

“No, but they might ha’ bin. It was this very morning. The master was at his work, and the children away at school; but, if I hadn’t just stepped out to have a few words with a neighbour, I might ha’ bin just under the very place. Isn’t it disgraceful, sir,” she added, turning to “Cobbler” Horn, “that human beings should be made to live in such tumbledown places? I believe Mr. Gray, here, would have put things right long ago; but he’s been kept that tight by the old skin-flint what’s just died. They do say as now the property have got into better hands; but——”

“Well, well, Mrs. Blobs” interposed the agent; “we shall soon see a change now I hope.”

“Yes,” assented “Cobbler” Horn, “we’ll have——that is, I’m sure Mr. Gray will soon make you snug, ma’am.”

“We must call at every house, sir,” said Mr. Gray, as they passed to the next door. “There isn’t one of the lot but wants patching up almost every day.”

“Cheer up, Mr. Gray,” said “the Golden Shoemaker.” “There shall be no more patching after this.”

In each of the miserable cottages they met with a repetition of their experience in the first. If the reproaches of the living could bring back the dead, old Jacob Horn should have formed one of the group in those mouldy and rotting cottages, to listen to the reiteration of the shameful story of his criminal neglect. Here the windows were bursting from their setting, like the bulging eyes of suffocating men; and here the door-frame was in a state of collapse. In one cottage the ceiling was depositing itself, by frequent instalments, on the floor; and in another the floor itself was rotting away. In every case, Mr. Gray made bold to promise the speedy rectification of everything that was wrong; and “Cobbler” Horn confirmed his promises in a manner so authoritative that it would have been a wonder if his discontented tenants had not caught some glimmering of the truth as to who he was.

On leaving the cottages, Mr. Gray took his employer to one of the farm-houses which his property comprised. They found the farmer, a burly, red-faced, ultra-choleric man, excited over some recently-consummated dilapidations on his premises. He conducted his visitors over his house and farm-buildings, grumbling like an ungreased wagon. His abuse of “Cobbler” Horn’s dead uncle was unstinted, and almost every other word was a rumbling oath. Mr. Gray assured him that all would be put right now in a very short time; and “Cobbler” Horn said, “Yes, he was sure it would.”

The farmer stared in surprise; but his blunter perception proved less penetrative than the keen insight of the women, and he simply wondered what this rather rough looking stranger could know about it, anyhow. He expressed a hope that it might be as Mr. Gray said. For himself he hadn’t much faith. But, if there wasn’t something done soon, the new landlord had better not show himself there, that was all; and the aggrieved farmer clenched his implied threat with the most emphatic oath he was able to produce.

Their inspection of the remainder of the village revealed, on every side, the same condition of ruin and decay; and it was with a sad and indignant heart that “Cobbler” Horn at length sat down, in Mrs. Gray’s front parlour, to a late but welcome cup of tea.

“To-morrow,” he said, “we’ll have a look at the old hall.”

“The Golden Shoemaker” spent the evening in close consultation with his agent. The state of the property was thoroughly discussed, and Mr. Gray was invested with full power to renovate and renew. His employer enjoined him to make complete work. He was to exceed, rather than stop short of, what was necessary, and to do even more than the tenants asked.

“You will understand, Mr. Gray,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “that I want all my property in this village to be put into such thorough repair that, as far as the comfort and convenience of my tenants are concerned, nothing shall remain to be desired. So set to work with all your might; and we shall not quarrel about the bill——if you only make it large enough.”

Mr. Gray’s big heart bounded within him, as he received this generous commission.

“And don’t forget your own house,” added his employer. “I think you had better build yourself a new one while you are about it; and let it be a house fit to live in.”

Mr. Gray warmly expressed his thanks, and they proceeded to the consideration of the numberless matters which it was necessary to discuss.

In the morning, under the guidance of the agent, “Cobbler” Horn paid his promised visit to the old Hall. It was a venerable Elizabethan mansion, and, like everything else in the village that belonged to him, was sadly out of repair. As he entered the ancient pile, and passed from room to room, a purpose with regard to the old Hall which already vaguely occupied his mind, took definite shape; and he seemed to hear, in the empty rooms, the glad ring of children’s laughter and the patter of children’s feet. In memory of his long-lost Marian, and for the glory of the Divine Friend of children, the old Hall should be transformed into a Home for little ones who were homeless and without a friend.

As they drove to the station, a little later, he announced his attention, with regard to the Hall, to Mr. Gray.

“I shall leave the business in your hands, Mr. Gray. You must consult those who understand such things, and visit similar institutions, and turn the old place into the best ‘Children’s Home’ that can be produced.”

“Very well, sir; but the children?”

“That matter I will arrange myself.”

The agent was getting used to surprises; but the next that came almost took his breath away.

“I believe,” said “Cobbler” Horn, at the end of a brief silence, “that your salary, Mr. Gray, is £150 a year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I wish to increase the amount. Pray consider that you will receive, from this time, at the rate of £500 a year.”

“Mr. Horn!” cried the startled agent, “such generosity!”

“Not at all; I mean you to earn it, you know. But let your horse move on, or I shall miss my train. And, by the way, will you oblige me, Mr. Gray, by procuring for yourself a horse and trap better calculated to serve the interests of my property than this sorry turn-out. Get the best equipment which can be obtained for money.”

The agent, not knowing whether he was touched the more by the kindness of the injunction, or by the delicacy with which it had been expressed, murmured incoherent thanks, and promised speedy compliance with his employer’s commands.