fest shortness of buttons. He held his coat and shirt together with one hand and traced patterns on the black and gold tablecloth with the index finger of the other, while his disengaged eye watched Mr. Bensington's sword of Damocles, so to speak, with an expression of sad detachment. "You don't want to run thith Farm for profit. No, Thir. Ith all the thame, Thir. Ekthperimenth! Prethithely."
He said they could go to the farm at once. He was doing nothing at Dunton Green except a little tailoring. "It ithn't the thmart plathe I thought it wath, and what I get ithent thkarthely worth having," he said, "tho that if ith any convenienth to you for uth to come. . . ."
And in a week Mr. and Mrs. Skinner were installed in the farm, and the jobbing carpenter from Hickleybrow was diversifying the task of erecting runs and henhouses with a systematic discussion of Mr. Bensington.
"I haven't theen much of 'im yet," said Mr. Skinner. "But ath far ath I can make 'im out 'e theemth to be a thtewpid o' fool."
"I thought 'e seemed a bit dotty," said the carpenter from Hickleybrow.
"'E fanthieth 'imthelf about poultry," said Mr. Skinner. "O my goodneth! You'd think nobody knew nothin' about poultry thept 'im."
"'E looks like a 'en," said the carpenter from Hickleybrow; "what with them spectacles of 'is."
Mr. Skinner came closer to the carpenter from Hickleybrow and spoke in a confidential manner, and one sad eye regarded the distant village and one
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