I began to see a
brighter side to Hubert St. Leonard's career as a farmer.
"Very well," I said; "we will regard the cow as settled."
I made a note: "Cow, sixteen pounds. Have the cowshed got ready,
and buy one of those big cans on wheels."
"You don't happen to want milk?" I put it to Miss Janie. "Susie
seems to be good for about five gallons a day. I'm afraid if we
drink it all ourselves we'll get too fat."
"At twopence halfpenny a quart, delivered at the house, as much as
you like," replied Miss Janie.
I made a note of that also. "Happen to know a useful boy?" I asked
Miss Janie.
"What about young Hopkins," suggested her father.
"The only male thing on this farm--with the exception of yourself, of
course, father dear--that has got any sense," said Miss Janie. "He
can't have Hopkins."
"The only fault I have to find with Hopkins," said St. Leonard, "is
that he talks too much."
"Personally," I said, "I should prefer a country lad. I have come
down here to be in the country. With Hopkins around, I don't somehow
feel it is the country. I might imagine it a garden city: that is
as near as Hopkins would allow me to get. I should like myself
something more suggestive of rural simplicity."
"I think I know the sort of thing you mean," smiled Miss Janie. "Are
you fairly good-tempered?"
"I can generally," I answered, "confine myself to sarcasm. It
pleases me, and as far as I have been able to notice, does neither
harm nor good to anyone else.
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