NEVER had an unfortunate business man more alert and resourceful adviser than Baldwin found in Inman at this crisis. Promptly, yet with no lessening of deference—nay, with a greater show of it—the mate became captain of the ship and held the helm with a master’s hand. In the inn and elsewhere Inman made light of the disaster. It was hard luck, he admitted; but when a man had plenty left, and had always lived and was content to live, as if he had nothing, there was no need to make a fuss about the loss of a thousand or two.

“It’s his heirs who may pull long faces,” he explained lightly; “and he damns them with a good grace, and doesn’t seem quite to know who they are.”

Baldwin himself kept indoors, and only his workpeople saw his face and heard his voice, and if both were a trifle sourer the difference was not very marked.

Inman, on the other hand, was friendlier and more approachable. He walked with a lighter step, and whistled softly as he worked, to the satisfaction of his master who looked upon these proceedings as a deliberate act of policy on his astute subordinate’s part; and also of the men, who appreciated anything that lightened and sweetened the usually sultry atmosphere of the shop. There was another reason for the master’s gratification, though it was one that was carefully hidden from everybody else, in the circumstance that his foreman’s energies were employed, and with apparently equal zeal, in two directions, one of which was to save the business from wreckage and the other to ensure the discomfiture of the Drakes. This latter object he pursued with an ingenuity and relentless determination that seemed almost superhuman to the slow-witted master, who never chuckled now except when news was brought that another scheme for his competitors’ downfall had hatched out successfully.

“He’s nowt i’ my line, isn’t t’ lad,” said Swithin; “and never has been from t’ first night when he stole Jagger’s job fro’ him; but one thing I say and that I stand tul, ’at he’s turned out a rare friend for Baldwin in his time o’ trouble.”

“Mebbee, mebbee,” Ambrose’s thin voice broke in; and from the look on the others’ faces it was evident the two disputants were having the field to themselves. “A hungry dog is fain of a dirty pudden,’ as t’ t’owd speyk puts it, and this young fella gives him summat he hasn’t wit enough to get for his-sen. But when a man’s gifted same as I’ve been, and partic’lar when he’s lived to my years, Swith’n there’s things he can see wi’ his een shut; and I can see Baldwin harvestin’ trouble by t’ peck ’at this young fella’s scattered for seeds o’ kindness.”

The old man’s words carried conviction and Swithin himself felt their force.

“There’s no man can say I’m a friend to either on ’em, Ambrus, and I’m not one to deny ’at you’ve t’ gift o’ seeing farther nor most folk——”

“It wor born in me, Swithin, same as t’ talent to make verses,” broke in Ambrose in a pleased voice. “They both run together, as you may say, and I take no credit for’t.”

“But I gie you credit for’t,” returned Swithin, stoutly, “and I don’t match my-sen alongside o’ you, Ambrus; not for a minute, when it comes to seeing what’s i’ folks’ minds. I’ve never ta’en to t’ lad, and I shouldn’t wonder if there isn’t a deal o’ trewth i’ what you say. T’ more I dwell on’t, and t’ less I like t’ lewk on’t, I will admit. They say he’s lent Baldwin all his own brass to tide him over while he can turn his-sen round; and if all’s to be believed ’at’s tell’d he got Keturah to put her bit in when Baldwin couldn’t move her. Now you heard what t’ lad said for his-sen that first night when he come into t’ bar and crushed t’ life out o’ t’ spider: ‘there’s no mercy i’ Natur’’ he said, ‘for the man what stands i’ t’ way o’ progress,’ I ask you if them wasn’t his varry words; and now I’m asking my-sen, if he’s having mercy on Baldwin, what’s he doin’ it for?”

“Aye, and I’ll ask you something,” interposed the same young man who had defied Inman to his face on one occasion;—“he’s got Baldwin to sell all his property; turned every stick and stone into brass to save t’ business, so they say; but who’s bought all t’ property? Now, can any of you tell me that?”

He looked round upon the faces of those whose eyes were turned inquiringly towards him; but there was no answer to be read on any of them. Only old Ambrose replied:

“T’ farm our Robin leases wor bought in by some lawyer chap; but who he was I can’t bethink me, though I seed it i’ t’ paper.”

“Aye, we’ve all seen it i’ t’ paper,” Jack went on savagely; “t’ first lot was bought by this lawyer from Airlee; t’ next it was a’ auctioneer from Airlee; them three cottages went to another man from Airlee, and that other man was a clerk i’ t’ same lawyer’s office, and t’ same lawyer’s name is on t’ bottom of all t’ auctioneer’s bills. If you can’t smoke aught after that, I’ll help you; but them ’at’s both years and wisdom’ll happen put two and two together.”

Swithin was eyeing the speaker unkindly, as he did any young man who promised to score at the expense of his elders; but Ambrose was less sensitive.

“You’ll be meanin’ I reckon ’at all t’ property has getten into t’ same hands? Well, it’s a sayin’ ’at all things has a’ end and a pudden has two; but what end there is i’ cloakin’ a thing up so as you don’t know whose brass is payin’ for t’ property I don’t see just at this minute. But it’s trew enough ’at

as I once wrote when I was in my gifted mood. There was three more lines, but they’ve clean gone out o’ my mind, and I don’t know ’at it matters——”

“You were never more gifted nor when you made that verse, Ambrus,” interrupted Jack; “and if we all live to see t’ end we shall see what a cunning devil this Inman is. It’s naught to none of us who t’ property belongs to; but I can tell you who t’ lawyer is ’at’s bought it——”

“We know who he is, so you’re telling us nowt, Swithin broke in derisively; and Jack turned upon him with a note in his voice that the remark hardly accounted for.

“I’m telling you what none of you’s had wit to pick out for yourselves; ’at it’s Inman’s lawyer—him ’at he’s recommended to Baldwin for this John Clegg business,—’at’s bought up all t’ property. Now do I let a bit o’ daylight in?”

From the expression on the men’s faces it was evident that he had; but the operation was not one that Swithin approved when he was not the operator, and he frowned on the young man as he said:

“You’ve gone round and round, Jack, same as a pegged goat; but you’ve just brought us back to t’ point I left off at—‘What’s he doing it for?’ That’s what you haven’t tell’d us, and that’s what I ask?”

“Aye, there’s lots of things you can ask,” answered Jack hotly, whilst a red flush overspread his face and his brow grew black. “I could ask what he’s doing it for when he meets your Polly first i’ one place then i’ another, but always where he thinks they won’t be seen. ‘There’s no mercy i’ Nature!’ No, by gen, there’s none in his; and one o’ these days you’ll be finding it out i’ your house to your sorrow.”

Without waiting to see the effect of this outburst—perhaps because he was too ashamed of what it revealed—he pulled forward his cap and left the assembly. Swithin’s mouth was wide open; but except for a furtive glance none of the men dared to look at him, save only old Ambrose.

“It’s t’ way o’ Natur’, Swithin——” he began; but by this time the other had found his breath, and he broke forth:

“T’ way o’ Natur’; If he hurts our Polly——! but I don’t believe a word on’t, and I’ll break yon Jack Pearce his neck for him! She’s more sense nor to let such as Inman go near her. Why, bless her, it ’ud kill her mother if owt happened t’ lass!”

“Don’t ye be too sure, Swithin, ’at there’s naught in it,” one of the older men interposed quickly. “My missus has heard t’ tale, and there’s more nor one has seen ’em together. It’s all round t’ village, anyway; if you start a scandal it doesn’t go on crutches, you know—t’ women see to that.”

“There’s happen nowt in it,” another added. “Jack’s a bit touchy, you see. He’s been spreading t’ net his-self for Polly, and he’s like to be jealous.”

The younger men laughed and Swithin experienced a sense of relief.

“I’ll net him!” he muttered; “spreading his rotten lies through all t’ village.”

“All t’ same,” said old Ambrose; “when a wed man smirks on a young lass he owt to be watched. It’s a trew word ’at there’s nivver a foul face but there’s a foul fancy to match it; and a foul face that lad has, wi’ mischief written deep. And when a man’s all for his-sen, even though it’s i’ t’ way o’ Natur’, a lass’s mother counts for nowt.”

Swithin shifted uneasily on his seat; and the landlord, who had heard most of the triologue, but had been too busy to take part, now tried to divert the conversation into another channel.

“I feel sorry for yon two,” he said, indicating the Drakes’ dwelling with a jerk of his head. “What they’ve had to put up with sin’ they started ’ud try the patience o’ Job, for there’s been nasty underhanded tricks played on ’em ’at ’ud ha’ driven some men out o’ t’ village. If you take pleasure i’ smartness there’s no question but what Inman’s smart, and keeps himself inside o’ t’ law into t’ bargain.”

“Aye, aye, Albert; but you’re nobbut a young man and hasn’t got your second sight yet,” said Ambrose knowingly. “A man ’at laiks wi’ a rope round his neck may last for a while but he’ll be throttled at t’ finish. There’s a sayin’ about a green bay-tree ’at I can’t call to mind—whether it’s i’ t’ Bible or one o’ my verses I couldn’t just say. I’ve lost a deal wi’ being a poor scholar, and it grieves me to think ’at if I’d nobbut—but I’ve lost t’ track o’ what I was sayin’, for owd age sets my head a-hummin’ like a top.”

“It caps me,” said Albert when the weak voice quavered to a standstill, “’at Maniwel takes it all so pleasant-like; and as for Jagger, I can’t reckon him up noway. I believe if they were to rive his shop down he’d nayther swear nor laugh; but just set to work and build it up again.”

“He cares nowt about owt sin’ Inman wed Nancy,” commented Swithin. “That explains Jagger, and there’s no more to be said.”

“Nay, there’s more nor that, Swithin,” said Ambrose. “You can judge t’ foal better when you know it’s sire, and Maniwel explains Jagger. T’ lad’s been a bit slow at findin’ his feet, but there’s nowt like a storm for drivin’ a man to t’ rock, and Jagger frames to follow after his fayther.”

“He mud do worse,” said some man whom Ambrose could not see.

“And that’s a trew word,” said Swithin, still gloomily, for his thoughts were divided.

“Right enough,” the landlord admitted; “but whether it’s a fault or a merit for Maniwel to take things so calm-like is a thing ’at a man can’t easy settle in his mind. Baldwin’s spread tales about ’em while there’s scarce a timber-yard i’ t’ country ’at’ll give ’em credit. They’ve clipped Joe his wings so as he dursn’t carry for ’em. Any man ’at supplies Maniwel is crossed off Baldwin’s books; and even them ’at’s given him a bit o’ work has been warned ’at if they go there for t’ little jobs they needn’t turn to Baldwin for them ’at’s too big for Maniwel to tackle. And now ’at he’s lost his brass, be it much or little, what chance has he?”

Most of those present shook their heads in reluctant agreement with the landlord, but Swithin turned so that he could look Albert in the face, and snapped an aggressive—“Well?”

“I was only meaning,” the landlord explained, “’at it doesn’t seem sort o’ natural for a man to be so cheerful i’ them circumstances, and to bear no grudge——”

“Well, ’cos why is he cheerful and doesn’t bear no grudge?” questioned Swithin, whose manner in this examination was anything but cheerful, and who seemed to be seeking a vent for his over-charged feelings. “I’ll tell you ’cos why! Have you never heard tell o’ God’s will? Well, Maniwel believes ’at there’s a power at t’ back o’ that man ’at goes straight and tries to do his duty by his neighbour ’at not all the devils i’ hell can stand again’, let alone such little devils as this Inman.”

His head fell as he mentioned the name, and not one of the company needed to be told that the seed Jack Pearce had dropped was already germinating.

Old Ambrose knew it; but his soul had been fired by this new thought, and he broke out eagerly:

“Aye, you’ve hit t’ nail fair on t’ head this time, Swith’n. I couldn’t ha’ put it better my-sen—not when I was i’ my gifted prime, and I shouldn’t wonder if it comes o’ you goin’ to t’ chapil, if not reg’lar, a toathri times i’ t’ year. I was a chapil-goer my-sen when I was a young fella and I call to mind a famous sermon by an owd man called Laycock—he was a local, but a grander preycher nor some ’at wore white chokers. It was i’ t’ days when they didn’t watter t’ Gospil down same as they do now, when they’re flayed o’ callin’ t’ devil hard names chance he happens to hear ’em. Owd Laycock pictur’d him as a bull in a mad hig ’at no man could stand up again’. But he tewk both t’ man and t’ bull down to t’ railway; and he set t’ man on t’ Scotchman and t’ bull atween t’ lines; and he opened t’ Scotchman’s throttle up yonder aboon t’ Junction; and eh, dear, there wasn’t as much wind left i’ that bull when t’ train had passed as there is i’ my poor bellowses at this minute. I made a set o’ grand verses, but they’re clean gone. It seems a sad waste o’ good stuff.”

“It was a sadder waste of a good bull,” murmured one of the company whose business made him a judge of such matters.

“T’ bull ’ud ha’ made a sad waste of a good man, wouldn’t it?” snapped Swithin.

“It was only what you mud call a parrible—this o’ owd Laycock’s,” Ambrose explained soothingly. “But what caps me is ’at Maniwel hasn’t so much as a foul look for t’ bull—meanin’ by that word both Baldwin and Nancy’s husband; but contraireywise ’ud go out of his road to do ’em a kindness.”

Before he could complete his observation, a shower that had been threatening for some time began to fall heavily, and the company dispersed—some to their homes and others to the parlour of the inn where the entrance of Inman prevented any continuation of the discussion.

Jealousy is a good stone on which to sharpen a man’s wits; but there was another in the village, in whom that trait was entirely wanting, who was watching the course of events with a quick intelligence that read into every move of Inman’s its proper significance. In one matter Maniwel was misled, for Nancy’s name figured in the list of creditors with the sum of £500 against it, and he was thankful that the girl’s loss was no larger. To what extent she was still interested in the joinery business he could not be sure; but he knew that by the terms of her father’s will Baldwin had the option to reduce his indebtedness, and from the known fact that the machinery was Baldwin’s own he concluded that little of the original loan was now owing.

Baldwin’s name figured high up in the list of creditors; and the outlook in his case was dark as the realisable assets were small, and it seemed likely that they would be absorbed in their entirety by the expense of collection.

Although Maniwel was naturally magnanimous, and less ready than most to attribute selfish motives to Inman, he was too shrewd an observer to overlook the evidences of duplicity that multiplied as the days went by; for it is a mistake to suppose that a large heart can be indulged only at the expense of a small brain. The wisdom of the serpent may be usefully combined with the harmlessness of the dove, and Maniwel had long ago reached the conclusion that Inman was working for his own ends and hoodwinking the master who regarded him as his only friend. He was convinced that Inman was the purchaser of all Baldwin’s property, and he shared his convictions with his own family but with no one else.

Jagger was indifferent. The money had been Nancy’s to start with—why shouldn’t it return to her? As for a double-dyed rascal like Inman—well, such men were apt to over-reach themselves and he could afford to wait. Meantime, any stick, however crooked, was good enough to beat such a dog as Baldwin with, and the harder Inman laid it on the better he would be pleased.

Hannah’s pity was reserved for Nancy, whose miseries had earned her forgiveness long ago. As for Grannie, she shook her head mournfully and said:

“Didn’t I tell you—

“He comes off a black moor, does her husband. Wasn’t it there where t’ bog slid down and sought to drown ’em off t’ face o’ t’ earth, they was that wicked, same as Sodom and Gomorrah? A race o’ cut-throats and kidnappers, I’ve heard my father tell, where t’ men was rakes and t’ sons o’ rakes, and t’ women a set o’ trollops. What was she doing, I wonder, to mate wi’ such-like? But sorrow was written on t’ lass’ face, as I’ve tell’d you many a time.”

“Never heed t’ old tales, mother,” Maniwel would say, as he saw the seamed face grow troubled. “There’s good, bad and middling on them moors same as there is on these. You may be thankful ’at he can’t do us no damage, choose how bad he is——!”

“Can’t he!” commented Jagger.

“No!” continued Maniwel. “I said us. I don’t deny ’at he can put a toathri obstacles i’ t’ way o’ t’ business; but I reckon naught o’ that. When I was a young man I didn’t set much store by flat-racing; but if there was a hurdle race you couldn’t ha’ held me back. They put a bit o’ spice into life, does obstacles; and there’s one thing I will say: there isn’t much chance, o’ sleeping i’ t’ daytime when Inman’s planking down his hurdles i’ t’ road, but I lose no sleep at nights.”