# Stranleigh's Millions/Respect the Law
### III RESPECT THE LAW

Young Lord Stranleigh had just completed the fastening of the last button of his right-hand glove, and was examining it most critically, as a connoisseur scrutinises any work of art seriously. Stranleigh wished to satisfy himself that there were no creases in the glove, for nothing annoyed him so much as to find himself in Piccadilly, in broad daylight, with one of his gloves slightly wrinkled. He was about to step into the hall when he became aware of some sort of altercation going on at his front door. Lord Stranleigh disliked very much a demonstration of any kind, or even loud talk about the house. Usually there was silence, soft footfalls, almost stealthy opening of doors and shutting of them, and subdued tones when a question was asked or answered. By the sounds that now came to him Lord Stranleigh surmised that at least three of his servants were endeavouring to persuade some people outside to remain there. ​What his servants were saying he could not catch, perhaps because discipline still restrained them, but the speakers outside made no attempt to modulate their conversation, which appeared now to be rising into accents of anger. He heard the word "flunkey" flung with scorn at the well-trained and quite trustworthy man who had opened the door. The word "flunkey" is the final expression of contempt which a roughly-clad working man can apply to a somewhat resplendent servant in livery, and Stranleigh knew the discussion was becoming serious when one of the combatants took to throwing verbal brickbats like this. He also thought he recognised the harsh dialect the outsiders were using, which sounded uncouth in the rarefied air of western London. Softly Stranleigh opened the door and stepped into the hall.
"What is the trouble, Perkins?" he asked.
"Why, my lord," said Perkins, who seemed flushed and rather excited, "here's a lot of navvies as insists on seeing your lordship. I'm a-telling of them, sir, that such a thing's impossible without an appointment."
A hush had fallen on the five men clustered together outside, the moment Perkins had addressed his master as "my lord." The applicants for admission ceased their clamour and stared stolidly at this unaccustomed picture of exquisite and indolent manhood before them. So this was Lord Stranleigh, they seemed to be saying to them​selves. Well, well, they had never seen anything quite like it before.
Lord Stranleigh smiled slowly upon them, then said to his doorkeeper:
"Perkins, I am astonished at you. You do not use your powers of observation when you go into the country with me. These men are not navvies, but farm labourers. You wish to see me?" he added, addressing the group. "For what reason?"
The leader pulled his forelock in awkward and embarrassed fashion.
"Sir," he said, "we be varm labourers, as your lordship sees. Us be tenants of yours."
"Tenants of mine? Ah, in that case it is Mr. Wilson you wish to see."
"Us has seen enough of Mr. Wilson, my lord."
"Ah, you are acquainted with my agent, then? Where do you come from?"
"Us comed up to Lunnon by excursion train this marning. Three-and-six return, third class. Had to leave at seven o'clock this marnin', sir, and get back in middle of night."
"Yes, but where from? At what station did you get your tickets?"
"Us came from Muddlebury, sir."
"But, my good man, I own no property in Muddleshire?"
"Yes, my lord, 'ee do. Four thousand acres 'ee do have in Muddleshire, and one carner touches the county town of Muddlebury."
​"Well, that's news to me. I've never visited Muddlebury that I know of. However, gentlemen, step inside. Come in. We can't discuss the land question out here on the doorstep. Perkins, tell Ponderby to telephone Mr. Wilson. Ask him to jump into a cab and come here as quickly as he can."
"Yes, my lord."
Stranleigh did not take his uninvited guests into the small business room, for there were only two chairs in that apartment, but he led them to the large library on the ground-floor, a sombre but impressive place, lined as it was with richly-bound volumes of all sizes from floor to ceiling. The five men huddled together, as if for mutual protection, and kept tumbling over one another's feet. They were plainly abashed by the splendour of their surroundings. Stranleigh, in his most affable manner, endeavoured to put them at their ease. He waved away the liveried servant who had followed them in, and himself set out chairs for the coterie.
"Sit down, sit down," he cried cordially. "Mr. Wilson will be here in a few minutes." But this information did not seem to cheer them up at all. They drew long faces as they seated themselves gingerly on the extreme forward edge of the leather-covered chairs, stamped on the back with the Stranleigh coat of arms.
"You've had a long journey this morning?"
​"Yes, my lord."
"And did you come directly from the terminus to my house?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Ever been in London before?"
"No, my lord."
Stranleigh, seeing their embarrassment, asked no further questions. He touched a button, and when a servant appeared said:
"Bring in five gipsy-tables, and set out a quart of beer on each, bottled; the best you have, with bread and butter and cheese."
This welcome refection was speedily placed before the group, who noticed that the servant treated them with as much respect as if they were five dukes. They seemed almost afraid to indulge in such a mundane act as eating and drinking in a room that appeared to them like a king's hall, but when once they set to, speedily swept the five little tables clean, and the excellence of the ale gave them a confidence they had not hitherto possessed, except when wrangling with the servants at the door.
"Now," said Stranleigh, throwing one leg over the other, and leaning back, "I rather think you're on a wild-goose chase. Still, if you know my friend Wilson, there may be more in your quest than I am able to perceive at the present moment. I'm certain I don't own any land in Muddleshire, but I won't insist on the point. What is your grievance, may I ask?"
​No attempt will be made to set down the dialect, which may be found galore in the works of a very celebrated English novelist. In fact, more than one writer of distinction has had his shy at the Muddleshire accent and vocabulary.
"My lord, we live in cottages on your lordship's estate, and we work for the farmers that are tenants of your farms. Now, these cottages are two or three hundred years old, built of timber and brick and plaster, with thatched roofs."
"And very picturesque they are," interpolated Lord Stranleigh.
Well, sir, my lord, we never heard that that was wrong with them too, but goodness knows they're bad enough. They leak, and the floor is ten inches, and sometimes more, below the level of the ground. Mr. Wilson, he won't spend a penny on repairs, and the farmers, they won't. Times is too bad, they says, and the cottages belong to Lord Stranleigh. He ought to mend them, they says, and Mr. Wilson——"
"Ah, what does Wilson say?"
"Mr. Wilson, he says as it's neither the farmer's business nor Lord Stranleigh's business; that we ought to mend them ourselves."
"They're past mending," growled another voice. "Ought to be torn down, every blasted one of them. They've been no good this last forty years."
"So the dispute seems to be: Who is the re​sponsible person so far as the repair of the cottages s concerned?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Ah, you say the farmers should do it; the farmers say I should do it; Wilson says you should do it, and between the three stools you come to the ground, or at least ten inches or a foot below it, as you remarked."
The farm labourers laughed. They liked this young man, and his beer was excellent. During their long lives they had never tasted anything to compare with it.
"Well, my lord, in the wet weather there's a good bit of sickness round about: coughs and colds and such-like on account of the dampness, and here and there a touch of fever."
"How many tenants do you represent?"
"What's that, my lord?"
"How many of you are there altogether? You haven't all come to London?"
"Oh, no, my lord. There's between thirty and forty of us, thirty or forty families, and we've all subscribed a bit, and us five came up to see you, my lord. We've seen enough of the farmers, and we've seen enough of Mr. Wilson."
"You don't wish to solve the problem by doing the work yourselves?"
"No, my lord, we're poor men, with a hard struggle to keep bread in the mouths of our children, but the farmers be rich, and——" the speaker ​paused, confused, suddenly seeing he was drifting into personalities. Stranleigh smiled, and completed the sentence for him.
"And Lord Stranleigh is rich?"
"Yes, my lord. Then there's another matter," said the speaker. "Good tenants have been turned out of the best cottages, and these cottages have been let to London people for the summer, at rents that a labouring man can't pay, and this crowds the rest of us into the poorer cottages where there isn't enough room."
"My friend, you are not logical. You complain first that your cottages are unhealthy, and then you say that Wilson lets them to London people, who are very particular about their habitations."
"Oh, London people be fools; everyone knows that."
Stranleigh laughed.
"Are they?"
"Yes," said another, "but they're there in summer, and not in the wet spring, or the fall of the year, with leaks a-dripping in, and the floor in a puddle."
The conversation, which had proceeded quite on a basis of equality, was interrupted by the opening of the door.
"Mr. Wilson, my lord"; and a brisk, business-like man of forty, with a shrewd, somewhat hard face, entered, hat in hand.
​"Good morning, Lord Stranleigh. You wish to see me?"
"Yes," drawled Stranleigh.
Wilson cast his eye over the group, which was now on its feet.
"Ah, Stiles, you've come to London, have you? What mutiny are you heading to-day?"
The man addressed as Stiles had been the speaker of the delegation. The advent of Wilson seemed to have tied his tongue. He made no answer.
"These people, my lord," said Wilson, "are pot-house politicians. You can't satisfy them. If you gave them the earth, they'd grumble."
"Well, Wilson, according to their talk, you've been giving them too much of the earth. They say some of the cottage floors are a foot below surface, and become ponds in wet weather."
"The cottage floors have always been that way, my lord. We didn't build them, you know. The rest of the tenants are perfectly satisfied."
Stranleigh looked at the group, expecting a contradiction of this, but they stood there paralysed at the sight of Wilson.
"Sit down, sit down, sit down!" cried Stranleigh, with some impatience. "Wilson, what will you take to drink?"
"Nothing at this time of the morning, my lord."
"A cup of coffee, at least?"
"No, thank you."
"Do I own property in Muddleshire?"
​"Four thousand acres, my lord."
"Well, the men were right in that, anyhow. There seems to be some dispute, Mr. Wilson, as to whose duty it is to repair the cottages."
"Oh, there's no dispute at all, my lord."
"Really?"
"No. Each of these men agreed with me that they should repair their own cottages, which they are entirely too lazy to do. It only means a handful of thatch on the roof, and a bit of plaster here and there on the walls."
"What have you to say to that, Mr. Stiles?" asked Stranleigh.
Stiles moistened his lips two or three times.
"Well, my lord, I don't know that I can say anything to it."
"Is it true that you consented to make repairs?"
"Well, my lord, we all agreed to something: we had to. You see, a poor man has no choice. He must have a cottage near the farm where he works: on the farm if possible. Take my word for it, there's too few cottages, and if Mr. Wilson here says: 'You sign this or you can't get the cottage,' why, we've got to sign it."
"Oh, there's no coercion at all about it," cried Wilson, with a touch of anger. "These men are constitutional grumblers. The cottages are as good as any others in the county. Besides, if they do not wish to apply for our cottages, there are houses to let in the village of Muddlebury."
​"What do you say about that, Mr. Stiles?"
"Yes, my lord, there's houses to let sometimes in the village, but they're beyond the means of a farm labourer. Mr. Wilson might just as well tell me there's houses to let in London. That's no good to me if they are not near my work, and if they're beyond the wages I earn."
"It does seem to me hard lines, Wilson," protested Stranleigh.
Wilson shrugged his shoulders.
"You cannot content these men, no matter what you do, my lord, and once you give way to them, their demands become incessant."
"They tell me some of the best cottages are rented to Londoners for the summer. Is that true?"
"Why, of course. A London man gives for a month or two three times as much as these yokels are willing to pay for a year."
"Oh, that's all very well, Wilson, but these people belong to the soil. They certainly have the first claim to the cottages. D—n the London man. Let him go somewhere else."
The delegation drew a deep and simultaneous sigh.
"If you will allow me to discuss this matter with you privately, my lord——"
"Oh, it isn't important enough for that," said Stranleigh, airily. "No, indeed, Wilson, it isn't important at all. The housing accommodation for farm labourers in Muddleshire is as good as in any ​other county in England, except here and there, of course, where there's some faddy proprietor, who erects cottages that never pay a half of one per cent. on the money expended."
The delegation glanced with alarm towards Stranleigh. They saw that the forceful Wilson was carrying all before him, while they sat dumb in his presence. But as they looked, their eyes opened with amazement. Lord Stranleigh's eyelid that was furthest away from Wilson slowly closed. The other remained open. Could they believe their senses? This great nobleman had actually winked at them!
"I hope, my lord," continued Wilson, with the confidence of a man who has never encountered interference, "that you will leave this matter in my hands. There is no use in your keeping a dog and barking yourself. I understand the situation, and I understand the people. With all due respect to you. Stiles, and the rest here present, the charming town of Muddlebury is a neighbourhood of grumblers. You are never satisfied. You collect in the evening at the tap-room of the pub, and growl there over your beer until closing time, and you, Stiles, are a great deal to blame for stirring up trouble among a contented people."
Poor Stiles muttered something in his throat, and the rest of the delegation shifted uneasily on their luxurious chairs. They saw that their mission was being nullified by the strenuous Wilson, but ​were men slow in mind and body, and finding themselves in unaccustomed surroundings, proved but dumb dogs when the real crisis was upon them. Lord Stranleigh leaned back in his armchair, his eyes partially closed, with a semi-comical twist to his lips. It amused him to learn how cocksure Wilson was that he could mould his master into whatever shape pleased him. The utter breakdown of the rural delegation was not lacking in a certain element of humour, even though it appealed strongly to the young nobleman's sympathy, and his inherent love of justice.
"If you give way in one thing, my lord, you must be prepared to give way in all," Wilson went on in hard accents of common sense.
"What do you mean by 'all,' Wilson?"
"I mean, my lord, that the farmers will want repairs to their houses, and out-buildings, when they learn how successful their labourers have been in getting you to listen to their complaints."
"Have the farmers taken their holdings on repairing leases?"
"Certainly, my lord. They must keep in repair all the buildings on their farms with the exception of the labourers' cottages, and these cottages must be kept in repair by the labourers themselves, a duty which I find great difficulty in persuading them to perform."
"Then, of course, if I repaired the cottages, I should have no logical reason for refusing the ​farmers if they made a similar request to me?"
"That is exactly what I am endeavouring to point out," assented the confident Wilson; "and, furthermore, you would have infinite trouble with the labourers. The moment you began repairing, there'd be no end to it. They'd all want bathrooms next."
This was really going too far, and the delegation roused itself. Stiles, his voice a-quiver with indignation, crudely denied that any labourer ever thought of a bathroom, and practically made reflections on Wilson's veracity. Wilson, however, paid not the slightest heed to him.
"Are there, then, no bathrooms in your cottages?" asked Stranleigh in surprise. "How do you manage?"
"We takes a wash-tub every Saturday night, my lord," said Stiles.
"Well, gentlemen, I have quite made up my mind not to sanction any repairs to the cottages. Mr. Wilson's arguments are unanswerable, and you have not even endeavoured to reply to them. I am much obliged to you, Wilson, for coming so promptly when telephoned for. I know you're a busy man, so I'll excuse you."
"Thank you, my lord. Good day, my lord," and the energetic Wilson departed.
The delegation had risen to its feet, glum and dumb. Stranleigh waved his hand.
​"Sit down, gentlemen," he said. "Talking's dry work, and you have been unduly garrulous, so I think a round of beer won't hurt you."
He touched a button, and gave the order. The labourers smacked their lips, and seated themselves once more.
"Now, gentlemen," began Lord Stranleigh, as soon as the beer was brought and the servant gone. He knew politicians always addressed labourers as gentlemen, and so followed the example. "I shall seize the first opportunity and run down to Muddlebury. You, Mr. Stiles, can probably get a day off, and accompany me as guide round the property. I should like to know the lay of the land, and to study the needs of the people. I am rather a stupid person, but you may have noticed that when a thing is explained very clearly to me I sometimes grasp a few of the details. What I have practically made up my mind to do, subject to the information gained on the visit I have referred to, is this. I shall leave the old cottages as they stand, if they are picturesque. We will allow Wilson to let them to Londoners who don't know any better. I shall get into touch with the best cottage architect there is in England, and I shall build new cottages, each of which will be equipped with a bathroom. Where do you get water? From wells?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Very good. I shall look into the water supply also. I think I can guarantee you nice sanitary ​new cottages within six months, perhaps less, and yet keep my promise to Wilson that I shall not repair the cottages now in existence. Of course, if those cottages you are now occupying turn out to be ugly structures, I must have them demolished when the new buildings are ready for occupation. And now, gentlemen, enough of business for one day. Let us devote the rest of our time to pleasure. None of you have been in London before, I think you said. Complete strangers without even a map?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Very well; I'll lend you my chief automobile until four o'clock this afternoon. It will hold seven very comfortably. I shall instruct my chauffeur to bring you back at four, in time for tea."
He pressed a button, and asked Perkins to send in Henri, the chauffeur. When that exquisite individual appeared, looking very natty in the Stranleigh livery, his master said to him:
"Henri, please telephone down to Messrs. Cook and Sons at Ludgate Circus, and tell them to have ready for you, within half an hour, one of their best guides to London. Here are five friends of mine from the country, and I wish them to see everything worth while that can be seen from now till four o'clock, at which hour I shall expect you here. You have nothing to do but to see that the speed limit is not exceeded. You will go wherever Cook's ​London guide directs. Avoid accidents, and bring your party home in safety."
The chauffeur cast a contemptuous glance at the delegation. A good chauffeur is an employee of pride and in the realms of service the lines of caste are much more marked than in what is commonly called good society. Lord Stranleigh knew what was passing in the chauffeur's mind, and even suspected him of considering himself socially superior to the dignified Ponderby, valet to his lordship. Stranleigh made no attempt to argue or to command. Apparently not seeing the frown on the chauffeur's brow, nor noticing his hesitation, Stranleigh indolently drew from his pocket-book two crisp Bank of England notes for five pounds each, and allowed them to rustle carelessly between his finger and thumb.
"If for any reason it should be inconvenient for you to take out the car this morning," said Lord Stranleigh in his sweetest tones, "be so good as to telephone to the garage, and ask them to oblige me by sending their best chauffeur."
The crinkle of the bank-note paper made itself audible to Henri, and his eyes removed from the delegation and fell upon the ten pounds.
"Oh, it's not inconvenient at all, my lord," Henri assured him with great eagerness.
Lord Stranleigh, folding the bank-notes, handed them to the chauffeur, murmuring inaudibly a ​quotation from ancient Pistol, "My fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take," then aloud to Henri:
"Tell Cook's man—the name is suggestive—to take you to one of the big restaurants where there is music, and give you all a lunch. Return here promptly at four, and then prepare a car for a long ride into the country."
At that hour the visitors once more presented themselves to Stranleigh, saying they had had the time of their lives. After tea the automobile was again ready for them, and Stranleigh, quite unrecognisable in goggles and fur coat, got in with them. The delegation was a little anxious about the train, but when Stranleigh learned it did not leave London till eight o'clock, he assured them they would have ample time to see a bit of the country, and be at the terminus before the hour of departure.
Once clear of the London suburbs, Henri, at the instigation of his master, put on a speed entirely unsanctioned by law, slowing down only when approaching a town or a village. The Stranleigh luck accompanied the vehicle, for it fell into no police traps, although the speed and the oncoming of evening began to make Stranleigh's guests exceedingly uneasy. How they ever were to get back to London in time for the excursion train, none of them knew, and Stiles felt a delicacy at mentioning their quandary, having previously spoken to Lord Stranleigh about their anxiety on that score. ​Finally Stiles in astonishment shouted out:
"Dang my buttons if there beant Rennet's farm!"
"Yes, and there be Grice's farm next door to un!" cried another.
"And that's Muddlebury steeple on ahead," said a third, and then all five laughed.
Before they entered the village, and just alongside of the railway station, Stranleigh ordered the car to stop.
"Now," he said, "I'll put you down here, for we don't want to make a sensation in Muddlebury, setting all the gossips' tongues a-wagging. What is the principal hotel in the place?"
"The Stranleigh Arms," replied Stiles.
"Oh, well, I ought to feel at home there, but I don't wish anyone to know I am spying out the land. My name at the Stranleigh Arms will be Edmund Trevelyan. Can you remember that, Mr. Stiles?"
"Oh, yes, my lord."
"Very well; if you could make it convenient to call there to-morrow at half-past ten, and accompany me on my rounds, I'd be very much obliged. Ask for Mr. Trevelyan. Should your master object to letting you go two days in succession, engage a substitute if you can, and I'll pay for him."
"Oh, that's easily done, my lord."
"Very good. Then say to those whom you represent that you have seen Lord Stranleigh in London; that he has taken the matter under con​sideration, and will send you a written answer in a day or two. Until that time I should rather have nothing said about my brief visit to Muddlebury."
All five assured Lord Stranleigh that they would be as mute as so many monuments, and after farewells, Henri drove up to the Stranleigh Arms, and under the arch into its old-fashioned courtyard, where Edmund Trevelyan received the warm welcome at an inn which is always extended to the owner of a huge sixty-horse power machine.
The young man, in company with the deferential Stiles, completed the investigation of his own property by lunch time, and after that meal went back to London. A day later he summoned Wilson, told that displeased man his intentions towards the Muddleshire property, directed him to secure the best architect he could find, celebrated for the production of romantic and comfortable cottages, instructed his agent to see that they were built, and then promptly forgot all about the matter.
One morning several months after the secret visit to Muddlebury, the Earl of Stranleigh was rudely awakened from his complacency. He was to be taught that in spite of great riches and many titles, he was but a worm of the dust. An Englishman is a man until he is elected to office; then he ceases to be human, and becomes official. Before an official who knows the law, everyone must tremble except the King. The British official is invariably honest, ​but that rather aggravates than mitigates his cold contempt for the layman. People who have had experience with the grafter in the west, and the granite-like honesty of the office-holder in England, have been known to prefer the genial good-fellowship and human sympathy of the pirate.
Lord Stranleigh found a letter on his breakfast-table that astonished without perturbing him. He little knew the nature of the breakers ahead. The following is a copy of the document which caused his eyebrows to rise, even if at that moment his hair did not follow suit.
"To Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood.
My Lord,
I am directed by the District Council of Muddlebury to call your attention to an action which I am desired to describe as not only high-handed but illegal. The District Council is informed that you have caused to be erected on your property within its jurisdiction certain structures which they believe to be unauthorised. According to Act of Parliament (here followed the designations of the statutes referred to) any person desiring to erect a building of any sort must first submit the plans thereof to the District Council, and must not proceed therewith except at his own peril, without the authorisation of the said Council. I am directed to ask you to produce the authorisation of the cottages you have put up on your estate, or ​failing such production forthwith to remove the edifices you have erected.
I have the honour to be, my lord, your obedient servant,
Paul Timmins,
Clerk to the Muddlebury District Council"
"Well, I'll be hanged," said Stranleigh, and he might have added "drawn and quartered" also.
"Just get Mr. Wilson on the telephone," he said to the man who was waiting on him, "and ask him to favour me by coming here at once."
When Wilson arrived, his lordship did not invite him to take the vacant chair at the breakfast table.
"Just cast your eye over that," he said, handing him the letter. Wilson read it in silence.
"I suppose," said he, when the perusal was concluded, "Binns, the architect, neglected to send in his plans to the council."
"Oh, you knew that was the law, did you?"
"Certainly, my lord."
"Then why didn't you see that Binns complied with it?"
"It wasn't my place to do so, my lord. Binns is a very celebrated and very busy man, and he rather resents interference. I took it for granted he would comply with building regulations and all that sort of thing."
"Quite so, but you are engaged to look after my ​interests, and no matter how peremptory Binns may be you should have seen to it that he submitted his plans to the Council, as that happens to be the law."
"Really, Lord Stranleigh, I think you are a little unjust. I no more thought of teaching Binns his business in that than I should have ventured to ask him to change the proportions, or the style, or the materials he used in the construction of the cottages."
"Therefore you are entirely blameless in the matter?"
"I think so, my lord."
"But should Binns say it was your duty to do this, between the two stools I fall to the ground, or, rather, two fools, if Binns is not too great an architect for me to class him as one of the imbeciles."
Wilson reddened slightly, but said nothing.
"You have been in constant communication with Mr. Binns, and, doubtless, know his telephone number. Ring him up, and learn if he has reached his office yet. Tell him I wish to speak with him."
Wilson disappeared and shortly after returned.
"Binns is on the 'phone, my lord," he said.
Stranleigh rose and went to the telephone.
"Is that you, Mr. Binns? This is Lord Stranleigh. It's about those cottages you built for me down in Muddleshire."
​"Oh, yes," replied Binns.
"I had a letter this morning from the District Council, which informs me that the plans were not submitted to the proper official before the buildings were erected, and that we had therefore no authorisation to proceed."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Lord Stranleigh. Didn't Mr. Wilson know that he must supply the plans to the District Council?"
"Wilson says that was your business."
"Oh, not at all, my lord. I merely supplied the plans and sent down proper experts to see that the builders followed instructions. Your Mr. Wilson gave out the contract, and, I believe, purchased the material. If he had placed the whole matter in my hands I should, of course, have seen that all formalities were carried out, or even though I had nothing to do with letting the contract, had Mr. Wilson asked me to submit the plans, I should very cheerfully have done so."
"Then it is entirely his fault?"
"Undoubtedly, my lord."
"What would you advise me to do, Mr. Binns?"
"Oh, you'll not have any trouble at all, Lord Stranleigh. You're the big man of the place, and those District Councils are usually made up of tradesmen and a few professionals who will take good care not to offend so powerful a neighbour as yourself. Still, I should choose the most urbane and suave solicitor you possess and send him down ​to the next meeting of the Council. Let him take the plans with him. Tell him to apologise abjectly and dwell a good deal on your desire to improve the district, hinting that these cottages are but a commencement. I understand that most of Muddlebury is built on your land, so I am sure you won't meet any serious opposition."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Binns. Good morning."
"Good morning, my lord."
Lord Stranleigh returned to the breakfast-room.
"Mr. Wilson," he said, "I shall be obliged if you would let me know as soon as possible when the next meeting of the Muddlebury District Council takes place—when and where."
"The District Council meets next Thursday, my lord, at ten o'clock in the Town Hall, Muddlebury."
"What a beastly early hour. Did you let the contracts for the cottages?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And buy the materials?"
"Yes, my lord. I thought it best to engage local builders, and they, as a rule, have not the capital necessary for the purchase of materials."
"That was quite right. I always like to engage a local man when I can. Are the cottages finished?"
"Nearly all of them, my lord."
"Any of them occupied yet?"
​"Some of them, my lord."
"Has Stiles moved into his new cottage?"
"Not yet, my lord."
"Nor any of the four men who were here with him?"
"No, my lord."
"H—m; that's merely a coincidence, I suppose?"
"Coincidence, my lord? I don't quite understand you."
"You are not teaching Stiles and the rest that it is better to refuse when they are asked to form a delegation?"
"Oh, no, my lord."
"I thought not. And it is equally absurd to suppose that you are giving an indolent person like myself a lesson in not interfering in the business of my agents?"
"I should be sorry if you believed that, my lord."
"I know you would be," said Stranleigh with one of his enigmatical smiles.
"I shall go at once, my lord, to Muddlebury, and see the members of the District Council. I know them all, and am sure I can rectify this error."
"Very well, do so, and while you are there see that the work on Stiles's cottage is pushed forward a bit. If you fail with the District Council; that is, if you do not get the signatures of the majority of ​them to a statement that they will accept the plans, you must let me know by telegraph, so that I can go down to Muddlebury on Wednesday night in time for their session on Thursday morning."
"Very good, my lord."
Wilson left the residence with an uneasy feeling that for once he had gone too far, and he cursed Stiles and his brethren, whereas he might better have cursed himself. On reaching Muddlebury he soon found that his mission was a failure. This District Council had a real live lord on the toasting-fork, and he was not going to be allowed to wriggle off until he was mighty well basted. Wilson telegraphed to Stranleigh, and on Wednesday night his lordship occupied a room in the Stranleigh Arms.
On Thursday morning at half-past ten he made his way to the Town Hall, hoping that the half-hour would have been sufficient for the Council to get through with its routine work. He carried a roll of building plans under his arm, and humbly he took off his hat as he tip-toed into the Council Chamber. The solemn public body was in full session, every member being present, as it had become known that Lord Stranleigh would be there in person to plead his cause.
The portly Hiram Greenleaves, leading grocer of the place, was chairman of the Council. Mr. Timmins, the Clerk, was one of the two solicitors who practised law in Muddlebury. The ​rest of the Council were more or less important inhabitants of the place, with the exception of two stalwart farmers whose garb proclaimed their occupation, both of whom Stranleigh afterwards learned were tenants of his own. Neither the chairman nor the members gave any greeting to Stranleigh when he entered, but went on gravely with the business before them. It was well to let this whippersnapper of the aristocracy, an absentee landlord at that, know of how little importance he was to the real working world. So the young man waited with great patience, hat in hand, and roll under his arm, until the Town Hall clock struck eleven. When the last reverberation of the last bell-note had ceased, his lordship ventured to speak.
"Mr. Chairman, I have come down from London especially to attend this meeting of your board. My name is Stranleigh. If you would have the kindness to let me know at what hour you could listen to my explanation regarding the cottages I have caused to be erected in this neighbourhood I shall be delighted to return at any moment that suits your convenience."
There was an impressive silence for a minute or two, then the stout chairman spoke with great solemnity.
"I don't know that we can listen to any explanation, Lord Stranleigh. What we wish to see (and we wrote to you requesting its production), is ​the authorisation under which you proceeded to build your cottages."
"It has distressed me to learn, Mr. Chairman, that through an unfortunate misunderstanding between my agent and my architect the plans were not submitted to you as they should have been. I assure you, whatever your decision may be, that no disrespect was intended towards your honourable body, and I hope you will accept an expression of my profound regret for such, as you might term it, inexcusable negligence. This failure to comply with the conditions of the law has caused me so much dissatisfaction that I am here in person to apologise, when I could perhaps have sent my agent, my architect, or my solicitor."
The mention of the word "solicitor" brought Mr. Paul Timmins to his feet. As clerk to the Council he could not vote, but was permitted to speak.
"That's all very well, Lord Stranleigh," he said, "but your agent has already been down here trying to threaten us."
"Not threaten you, I hope, sir," protested Stranleigh, mildly.
"Well, he attempted to show very eloquently that it would be to our advantage to conform with your lordship's wishes, and I daresay if he had succeeded we wouldn't have seen you here to-day. You must know, my lord, that before the law all men are equal, and we cannot treat you any dif​ferently than we would the humblest labourer on your estate."
"I shall make no plea for preference, sir."
"But as I understand it, you are making a plea for preference. You have broken the law, and you ask us to do the same in your behalf."
"I sincerely beg your pardon, sir, but I come here with no such intention. If you tell me that the Council have not the power to authorise my cottages to remain, then I shall not say another word."
"Oh, it possesses the power right enough," replied he truculent Timmins.
"Then I submit, with all due respect, that in asking you to exercise this power I am not attempting to make you break the law."
"He's got you there, Timmins," said Mr. Grice, one of the farmers, with a hoarse laugh.
"What is it you propose, Lord Stranleigh?" asked Mr. Bennet, the other farmer, leaning forward.
"I propose, sir, to submit at once the plans of my cottages, which should have been placed before you at the beginning. When you examine them, I shall be pleased to carry out any alterations that are suggested."
"Well, I must say that seems a fair and reasonable proposition," said Mr. Bennet, looking toward the chairman.
"I agree with that," added Mr. Grice,
"May I say a word, Mr. Chairman?" put in a ​sallow, discontented-looking, middle-aged man, who would have been the handsomer for a shave and a hair-cut.
"Certainly, Mr. Cloisters," nodded the chairman.
"I may inform Lord Stranleigh that I am an architect by profession, and have been appointed surveyor for this district. If the Council decides to receive the plans at this late day, they will come before me for judgment. I am well aware that Mr. Binns is a celebrated architect. Whether he is a good one or not I leave for others to say. Probably he is the right kind of man to draw plans for buildings in London, Manchester, or other large cities, but I have no hesitation in stating that the cottages which have been erected in this neighbourhood are entirely unsuitable for the purpose. They are provided with bath-rooms, hot and cold water, and other luxuries, that our labourers are quite unaccustomed to. They will breed discontent and lead to extravagance. Their erection will make it harder for other landowners who are not in the fortunate position of Lord Stranleigh so far as wealth is concerned, and cannot afford to put up cottages for their labourers at a rent those labourers would pay. Lord Stranleigh may be willing to forgo interest on his investment, but other landowners are not so well situated. The inevitable result must be great discontent among the labourers in every part of the district except that which Lord ​Stranleigh owns. I should have condemned those plans if they had been submitted to me at the first, and I shall condemn them now."
"What, without seeing them?" asked Stranleigh.
"I don't need to see them," replied the architect with some indignation. "I studied the buildings from the foundations until the roofs were on, and while they might answer very well for suburban villas, they are absurd as labourers' cottages."
"If you examined them, Mr. Cloisters, from the foundations upwards, would it not have been a neighbourly thing to drop me a note and call attention to the fact that these plans had not been submitted to you?"
"That had nothing to do with me."
"Oh, I'm not complaining, Mr. Cloisters. I am merely suggesting."
"It is none of my business to prevent you from breaking the law, Lord Stranleigh."
"True, true, Mr. Cloisters, and I have already apologised for this lapse, which, after all, was not my own doing."
"A prisoner in the dock of the New Bailey, my lord, may apologise, but his trial goes on just the same," said Mr. Timmins, the lawyer.
"Do you suggest that I am a prisoner in the dock, Mr. Timmins?"
"I don't suggest anything. I say you are a law-breaker."
​"Merely technically, Mr. Timmins. I have been perhaps a little too anxious to improve your neighbourhood, but I should like to point out that I am the largest taxpayer in your district, that these cottages were built with local material and by local labour, and, really, in asking you to strain a point in my favour, I do not think I am overstepping the limits which a beggar should not cross."
"Your agent has made much of the local material and local labour argument, also the tax-paying duties which your lordship performs. This, I respectfully submit, is simply one form of coercion. To put the matter in a nutshell, if Bill Stiles built an out-house without submitting his plans to the Council he would promptly be made to tear it down again. I fail to see why the Council should be asked to make any distinction between Stiles and Stranleigh. This matter was threshed out when the defendant was a much more important person than Lord Stranleigh. I refer to the action of a District Council in Sussex, who requested his lordship, Mr. Justice Grantham, Judge of the King's Bench Division, to tear down the cottages he had erected without the authorisation of the District Council."
"Oh, well," laughed Stranleigh, "if I am in the same box as one of his Majesty's judges, I could not ask better company. Mr. Chairman, and members of the Council, I thank you very much ​for hearing me so patiently as you have done. My offence appears to be more heinous than I had at first considered it, but I should like to know what your final decision is. If you see any loophole through which a hardened, but repentant criminal might escape, I should be obliged if you pointed it out. If not, I shall wait until I learn the result of your vote, and, of course, like any other malefactor, I must abide by the verdict."
"I move," said Mr. Bennet, "that this Council accepts the cottages as they stand."
"I second the motion," responded Grice.
"I move an amendment," proclaimed Simpkins, "which is that this Council abide by the law, and require Lord Stranleigh to remove the unauthorised cottages before this day six months."
"I second the amendment," said William Robinson.
The amendment was carried with only two dissenting voices. When the chairman announced the result of the vote Lord Stranleigh again bowed to the assemblage, thanked them once more, bade them good-day, and withdrew. The Council was triumphant, but somehow, as they saw the back of his lordship disappear, a feeling of uneasiness gradually overspread the congregation. The two farmers got up with expletives that sounded dangerously like oaths, and followed the young man outside.
​"They are tenants of his," said the lawyer with sneering contempt, "and want to stand in favour with him."
There was a laugh in the body of the hall, and the chairman looked indignantly at that direction. Quite a respectable audience had gathered in the space reserved for the public, drawn by curiosity to hear what Lord Stranleigh would say. The laugh came from Robert Smythe, the unsuccessful rival to Hiram Greenleaves, who had a practical monopoly of the grocery trade. Smythe's customers were mostly the farm labourers and poor people of the town, and, being an outspoken man, he did not conceal his sympathy with them in his condemnation of the majority of the Council.
"What are you pleased to laugh at, Mr. Smythe?" asked the chairman, icily.
"I was laughing when Timmins said that Bennet and Grice were tenants of Lord Stranleigh. Why, you wise-heads, you're all tenants of Lord Stranleigh; at least, all that live on my side and your side of the street, Greenleaves."
"I hold a lease, he can't hurt me," said the chairman, but, nevertheless, he became a little green about the gills, as he remembered that a landlord has still the power in Britain. And so the Council adjourned, not quite so satisfied with its triumphs as it had expected.
​The two farmers overtook Lord Stranleigh, and he shook hands with them.
"We're tenants of yours," said Bennet, "but that isn't the reason we voted for you. This thing is simply a damned piece of local jealousy. Muddlebury is the cliquiest town in all England."
"Oh, every town is that, Mr. Bennet," said Stranleigh.
"Why, my lord, if you'd given the designing of those cottages to William Cloisters, you'd never have heard a word about the plans not being submitted."
"You see, I was so unfortunate as not to know anything about Mr. Cloisters."
"You are surely not going to let it rest here, are you, sir? You'll appeal?"
"I don't exactly know at the moment what I shall do, except that I mean to spend ten or twelve minutes thinking about it."
"You have a lawyer, Lord Stranleigh?"
"Yes; I employ nearly a dozen of them, but if one of his Majesty's judges couldn't prevail against this sort of tyranny how can I hope to be successful?"
"Now, if I were you, my lord," said Bennet, very confidentially, "I'd look in on Jacob Sneerly."
"Who is he?"
"He's the other lawyer in this town, and the ​most unpopular man in the village. He tried to get on the District Council, but was defeated by a demagogue who is great on the gab, and Sneerly, who has ten times his brains and knowledge, received hardly a score of votes."
"Why is Sneerly so disliked?"
"Oh, he's an outspoken ruffian. He was born disagreeable, yet I believe him to be an honest, good-hearted man, although I've never had any very civil words from him. I've always given him whatever of my law business there was to do. I like to keep clear of the law."
"So do I," said Stranleigh. "I'm a peacemaker, and believe in the soft answer. Now, gentlemen, I'm stopping at the Stranleigh Arms. I want you to lunch with me."
"Oh, we're just going home, and dinner will be ready when we get there."
"Never mind that. You're lunching with me.
Lord Stranleigh was thoroughly enjoying himself, in spite of the fact that his mission to Muddlebury had been such a complete fiasco. The two farmers proved to be big-hearted, bright-natured men, so extremely partisan that Stranleigh felt as though he were leading a forlorn hope. Indeed, as the three walked together up the High Street of the little town, Muddlebury was rapidly dividing itself into two factions, and very early in the game it ​was evident that the Council, though supreme in the hall, was not so in the town.
The rumour spread abroad that the great and wealthy Lord Stranleigh had actually spent a night in the village; that the huge red automobile was his; that the haughty, disdainful chauffeur, who mixed not with the populace, and answered no man who inquired about horse-power, was in reality Lord Stranleigh's servant. Up to this morning the Earl of Stranleigh had been merely a name and a legend. The youth of the village imagined him a giant ten feet high, with a fierce and frowning countenance; and now here he was, walking up their main street, a really nice-looking young man, affable and agreeable, not nearly so high and mighty as his own chauffeur; laughing and chatting with two farmers as the trio slowly made their way to the inn. So slowly did they walk that the members of the Council for the most part passed them by. Greenleaves, the grocer, had gone bustling up the street, swelling with importance, as a man whose every minute was of moment, as Stranleigh remarked, when the stout tradesman puffed past.
A little way up the street stood one of the doomed buildings, just completed. Although quite new, there was nothing raw in its appearance, and so excellently in keeping with the ancient houses was its architecture that already it nestled ​beautifully into place as if it had always been there. In front there was gathered quite a respectable crowd, whose imagination had been stirred by its coming destruction; for to the simple minds of the villagers the action of the Council was final, against which there could be no appeal, even by so powerful a man as Lord Stranleigh. Yet law or no law, the people were all against such wanton demolition. They saw in their mind's eye the members of the Council with their coats off, armed with pick-axe, crowbar, and spade, attacking this perfect little building of greenish stone, red brick, and old tiles, and they were not pleased. This little mob surrounded the important grocer and arrested his progress towards his shop. The trio saw him explaining and expostulating, but they could not hear what he said. He glanced at the house, and glanced at the indignant mob, and glanced with apprehension at the approaching Lord Stranleigh with his two partisans. Greenleaves was not having it all his own way here, as was the case in the Council Chamber. As he saw the grocer mop his brow with a big red handkerchief, Stranleigh laughed as he recited:
"And now the counsel's brow was sad.
And the counsel's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the house,
And darkly at the foe."
"By cripps!" cried Grice, "that's good. Did you make it up yourself, my lord?"
"No," said Stranleigh. "I am merely mutilating some lines by the late Lord Macaulay. Our friend the grocer doesn't seem happy after his victory."
"Why," said Bennet, "it's an amazing situation. I am a Tory, as my father was, and as my grandfather was, but here's a body elected by the Radical vote, and here's a member of the aristocracy, an absentee landlord, of whom we hear so much, has spent thousands of pounds for the improvement of the neighbourhood and the comfort of the poorest paid working section of the community. And who opposes this? The Tories? Not a bit of it! The Council elected by Radical vote; elected by the very men to whom they now say, 'Back you go into your old, unhealthy rooms. These new cottages are too good for you'!"
As they passed the assembly in front of the new house they heard the perturbed grocer say:
"We're not going to touch it; we're not going to pull it down. It's Lord Stranleigh himself who'll do that, because he didn't abide by the law. 'Tain't us as is to blame; it's the law. We be merely carrying out the law, and it's to the Houses of Parliament you should go if you want the law amended. We be powerless in the face of the law."
​"What a law-abiding place Muddlebury is!" commented Stranleigh.
"Now, there's the humbug of it all," said Bennet. "You see that ugly office building three doors up the street? That was built and architected by Cloisters for Timmins, the lawyer. Timmins of late is getting proud because he's making so much money, doing practically all the law business of the town and surrounding country; because, as I said, old Sneerly hasn't a good word for anybody. Timmins had a long lease of the ground on which the old building stood, so pulled it down and had Cloisters architect that one about two years ago. I don't remember that either Timmins or Cloisters showed us the plans."
"Oh, well," protested Grice, "Cloisters being the surveyor, he'd only need to show the plans to himself, and Timmins, being the Clerk, he'd put it down in the book."
"I don't believe," objected Bennet, "that that is the law. Cloisters reports, of course, and he reports to the District Council, and we may accept or reject his report, and then the chairman would sign it. There's a clique runs that Council, just as it does everything else in this town. Greenleaves, Timmins, and Cloisters does what they please."
"That's very interesting," said Stranleigh, "and ​it suggests a line of action to me. I must make some inquiries into the matter."
"Well, you set old lawyer Sneerly on the scent, and you'll see some fun. He'd like nothing better than to get his knife into that gang, and would have done it on his own before this, only he's got no money."
The three enjoyed lunch together, then the two farmers rode off in company to their homes. Stranleigh, a good cigar in his mouth, strolled along the main street towards the west end of the town; a portion of the place that was new to him. Women that he met curtsied to him in the old-fashioned way, and men took off their caps, salutations which the young man returned affably, beginning to realise that, in spite of what had happened, he was the chief frog in this particular puddle. Respect for rank is slow to die out in rural England, and it was because of his social position rather than for his wealth that these strangers were so courteous to him. At the western limit of the village he came to a standstill, and viewed with admiration a fine old manor house, standing far back from the street in its own well-timbered grounds.
"By Jove!" he said, "Tudor of the best period, and a good example. I wonder I've never seen a picture of this place now that they are photographing everything. H—m, I must visit it, ​if they permit tourists to look over the mansion."
Retracing his steps, Stranleigh threw away the stump of his cigar, and walked with head bent down, meditating upon the situation. Why, after all, should he trouble himself about this dull rural community, governed by a clique, as the farmer had said. Why not turn the business over to his legal advisers and let them fight it out; and, if the worst came to the worst, allow the cottages to be pulled down. It seemed a sad waste of money; but then he had plenty of it, so what difference? If the community wished to cut off its nose to spite its face, why interfere with the interesting process? Then his thoughts turned to the two farmers who had lunched with him; splendid specimens of independent, stalwart men, sane with the sanity of all out-doors; the common-sense of the open air, the fields, and the woods. Next his mind wandered to a vastly different type: to Stiles and the men he represented, working hard from dawn till dark for insufficient wages, on insufficient food; living in insanitary dwellings under conditions nothing like so luxurious as that enjoyed by Stranleigh's pigs at the Home Farm.
"I shall not back out now," he said to himself. "I should have turned those poor beggars away from my door if I didn't intend to keep my word with them."
​And now the District Council came into his purview; men elected by the people, yet thinking only of their own amour propre, of their own axes to grind, never giving a thought to the comfort and health of those they would thrust back into dwellings none too good when they were built two or three centuries ago.
"Here am I, a gilded popinjay, as I have been called, cudgelling my brains for the betterment of Stiles and his like; and yet I am baffled by the elected of Demos, just as if the District Council carried out the popular idea of the House of Lords." He laughed. "This is a funny world!" he cried aloud, forgetting he was walking High Street.
"Do you think so?" said a rasping voice that awoke him from his reverie.
He looked up. On the steps before an office stood a man with the most forbidding face he had ever seen. It was a strong, harsh countenance, seamed in deep lines by discontent, envy, anger, truculence, and also some lines drawn by the shrunken fingers of anxiety and fear ; yet no lack of courage under it all, even bravado, so Stranleigh summed him up.
On the white, opaque glass of the office before which he stood were painted in black letters the words: "Jacob Sneerly, Solicitor," and then in smaller letters at the corner, "Commissioner for Oaths." The name brought to his mind the advice ​of the farmer, and, without answering the question of the man on the step, he asked one himself:
"Is Mr. Sneerly in?"
"No, he isn't."
"When will he return?"
"I'm not here to answer any fool who questions me; my time's valuable."
"How much is it worth?"
"Five shillings an hour."
Stranleigh put his hand in his trousers pocket, extracted a golden sovereign, and presented it to the rude individual before him.
"I own your time for four hours. When shall I find Mr. Sneerly in his office?"
"As soon as I turn my back on the street and enter this doorway."
"Then you are Mr. Sneerly?"
"I've never denied it."
"I need some advice."
"Most people do. Come inside."
They entered a bare office, which did not attempt to look prosperous. There were no bogus files of documents upon the table. It was palpably the workshop of a lawyer who had very little business to do, and it made no pretence of being anything else."
"Sit down," said the lawyer, offering him one of the two chairs in the room; and when Stranleigh had done so, Sneerly seated himself on the other chair, drawing it up to the table.
​"What's your name?" he asked gruffly.
Stranleigh smiled. "I have paid for the privilege of asking questions myself," he said gently.
"I conduct my business in my own way," snapped the lawyer.
"So do I." Stranleigh beamed upon him with the utmost good nature, which seemed to exasperate the man, who flung the sovereign down on the table.
"Take back your money," he roared, "and get out of this office. I refuse to speak with a man who dare not give his name. Come, get through that door."
Stranleigh laughed aloud.
"The farmer was right," he said at length. "You are a beast."
"What farmer said that?"
"Any farmer who knows you will say it. I am a farmer. I raise the best pigs in England. I know the nature of pigs, and they are gentlemen compared with you. Now, you can fling down your money as you like. It doesn't belong to me. It's yours. What does belong to me, however, is four hours of your time, and at the present moment you are wasting my property."
The solicitor glared at him for a few moments in speechless wrath, then he said more calmly:
​"That's true. You're in the right. On what subject did you wish advice?"
"I'll tell you by and by. We have plenty of time. In the first place, my name is Stranleigh."
"Oh, are you Lord Stranleigh that all these fools are making such a fuss about?"
"I don't know about the fuss, but I am Lord Stranleigh."
"Well, if you expect me to say 'my lord' after every second word, you'll need to pay extra for that. I can't do it for a pound."
"I'd much rather you didn't. You may call me Teddy if you like, unless you think it's disrespectful to the President of the United States to waste such a cognomen on a person so useless and indolent as myself."
"Well, Lord Stranleigh, you've butted your head against the District Council. You're quite in the wrong. Your plans should have been submitted to them, and you should not have put spade into the ground until you received the Council's permission."
"Oh, I know all that already. I haven't paid five shillings an hour to be told what is within my own knowledge."
"Excuse me, what did you wish advice about?"
"I am interested in Grocer Greenleaves' barrels ​and boxes that are outside his premises on the pavement."
"What is that you say?" cried the amazed lawyer.
"Isn't my statement perfectly clear? I wish to know if the excellent Greenleaves has the right to take up, for his own private purposes, space intended for the public."
"Oh, I see. Certainly he hasn't."
"Then enter a suit for damages against him."
"Oho!" cried the lawyer, drawing a pad of paper towards him and dipping a pen in the ink. "I think it isn't advice you want, but commands you are going to give."
"Perhaps. You will serve the writ, we will say, to-day. If to-morrow the boxes and barrels are still there in defiance of the law, bring another suit against him, and thus issue writ after writ until he clears the public space in front of his windows. Bring thirty actions at law against him if necessary, and remember to demur, and subpœna, and injunct, and every other thing your villainous profession can do to make it as expensive as possible, both for myself and Greenleaves, and be assured I don't care the toss of a copper whether I win or lose."
As the solicitor noted down particulars on his pad, he had placed an old pair of spectacles on his nose, which somehow added to the hideousness of ​his countenance. He now looked over these glasses across the table at the young man seated imperturbably before him. A grim and sinister smile added to the repulsiveness of his features.
"Teddy," he said, "I'm glad to have met you."
"Thanks; the same to you. So much for Mr. Greenleaves. Now place another name on your pad: the name of Timmins."
"Ah!" ejaculated the lawyer, as he wrote it.
"I have reason to believe that when he erected his new office on my ground he neglected to place the plans before the District Council."
"Still, that was Cloisters' business, you know," interrupted the solicitor.
"Quite so; but understand that in these legal contests in which you are to be my general, I care nothing about right or wrong, or win or lose. Through the injustice of a cruel world I can spend a thousand pounds to the hundred that any man in this village can afford. I know I shall have to pay costs when I lose, but those costs you shall tax to the utmost, and there will be a good margin of loss to the other fellow, no matter which way the case goes. When we win, of course, it is all the better. Bring action against Timmins."
"Right you are!" cried the solicitor, with something almost like enthusiasm in his voice.
"Now we come to Cloisters. Take pains to dis​cover the number of buildings Cloisters has been architect of. Find out if all the plans have been submitted in proper form to the District Council. I am told such has not been the case, but, as I have said, it doesn't matter whether Cloisters is in the right or wrong. Let's enjoy a few actions against him. I am determined to teach this town the sharp lesson the town has taught me—namely, that everybody, high or low, must respect the law. Before you and I get through with Muddlebury, Mr. Sneerly, it will be the most law-abiding spot on the face of the earth. In a few weeks a man will be afraid to sneeze, fearing to fracture one of the statutes."
The gloomy Sneerly actually laughed, and vigorously rubbed his thin hands together.
"Now, in a word, you will bring actions at law against every member of the District Council except Farmer Bennet and Farmer Grice."
"Ah, it was one of those two said I was a beast."
"Oh, no; I was the farmer who said you were a beast. Bring an action for slander against me, if you like. But I warn you I'll prove it."
"I dare say you would. It is but fair to tell you that you run a danger, my lord——"
"Teddy, if you please."
"Very well, Teddy; you run a danger of being had up for malicious prosecution."
"Oh, we must just chance that. We'll fight ​them on that score as well as any other. By the way, who owns that lovely old manor house in the west end?"
"Why, you do, of course."
"Do I?"
"Certainly. You own everything on the north side of the main street, you know."
"I didn't know. Is the manor house furnished or unfurnished?"
"Oh, it's fully furnished, and has often been let, though it's vacant at the moment."
"Well, I think I'll come down here and live for a while and learn respect for the law. The enjoyment of your own company is an additional attraction, even though it costs five shillings an hour. Do you know my property pretty well, Mr. Sneerly?"
"Every foot of it."
"You say your time is worth five shillings an hour. Counting three hundred and sixty-five days to the year, and ten hours to the day, just figure up how much that would be. I'm no hand at calculation."
"Nine hundred and twelve pounds ten shillings." "Then let us make it the even thousand pounds. I offer you the position of agent to my property at a salary of a thousand pounds a year. Whatever law business you do for me will be extra, of course."
​Sneerly pulled the spectacles from his face, placed them on the table, pushed back his chair a foot or two and stared at Stranleigh. The young man was amazed to see something of softness smooth out a few lines in that granite face, while a touch of pathos made the corners of his thin lips quiver.
"Do you mean it?" gasped the lawyer.
"Of course I mean it."
The lawyer rose, plunged his hand in his trousers pocket, nervously counted out fifteen shillings in silver, and slid the coins in front of the astonished Stranleigh.
"There!" he cried. "There's your other three hours. I must go and tell the wife the good news. Poor woman! Never in all her life has she had quite enough money to keep her poverty-stricken home. All my fault. I'm a beast, I admit, but—but I've never been a beast to her."
The man's harsh voice broke, then he said with a struggle:
"Come back in an hour. I'm not able to talk to you just now. Besides, I want to see my wife."
To the amazement of all Muddlebury, grim old Sneerly proved not only a just agent, but the kindest that the tenants had ever known. He had been through difficulties himself, and prosperity developed in him a sympathy for the difficulties of others.
Stranleigh 's numerous lawsuits never went ​beyond the issuance of the writs. By an odd coincidence, the District Council at its next meeting called for the plans of the cottages, and ratified them; which shows that Sam Patch was quite right when he said: "Some things can be done as well as some others."