"Very little. I'm an architect. But I like the country. Riding, fishing. That sort of thing."
"Well, you'll find life different here. Of course, Grimstone is a small place, just two hundred acres; it's not a great charge. Now, we have eight hundred acres, and the finest herd of Holsteins in the Province. You must come to see us, Mr. Vale, and I'll show you about. I manage the farm lands for Mr. Jerrold, the owner. My name is Hobbs." He gave the information about himself with a certain swagger. Obviously, he was a man to be reckoned with.
While he discoursed with fluency of prize bulls, butter-making contests, and fattening steers, young Mr. Vale, half wishing he were alone again—this man seemed to take the glamour from his adventure—peered into the now deepening dusk for the first signs of his new habitation.
He had been told at the station that a little graveyard lay just east of Grimstone, and now the road, sweeping sharply to the very edge of the steep shore, almost circled a grove of ragged pines, among which he caught the pale glimmer of gravestones. The gentle swish of the water seemed at his very feet. A white wooden house appeared like someone waiting at the roadside. Hobbs was saying:
"This is where Chard lives. You'll not find him much of a neighbour. Now I'll just tell you what he's like. Not long ago he hired some men from Mistwell to help him dig drains. Very well; when the end of the week came he paid the men, all but old Peek. And he says to him—'Peek, you're so old and feeble that you can't do as much as the others, so you'll come back to work two days more before I give ye a week's wage.' And the poor old devil had to. So now I've introduced Chard, the Superintendent of the Sunday-school, and a damned good farmer. But
