meant. When he had drained the glass he vacantly looked out. Boggy
pasture and stony cornfields ran back from the tarn. Here and there a
white farmstead, surrounded by stunted trees, stood at the hill foot;
farther back a waterfall seamed the rocks and yellow grass with threads
of foam; and then a lofty moor, red with heather, shut off the view.

The land was poor at the dale head, but there was better below, where the
hills dropped down to the flat country, and, with the exception of
Ashness farm, all was Osborn's, from Force Crag, where the beck plunged
from the moor, to the rich bottoms round Allerby mill. Unfortunately, the
estate was encumbered when he inherited it, and he had paid off one
mortgage by raising another. He might perhaps have used other means,
letting his sporting rights and using economy, but this would have
jarred. The only Osborn who bothered about money was his wife, and Alice
was parsimonious enough for both. Money was certainly what his agent
called tight; but as long as he could give his friends some shooting and
a good dinner and live as an Osborn ought to live, he was satisfied.
Still, Gerald must have his chance at Woolwich and this needed thought.
Osborn felt he would like another drink, but glanced at his watch and saw
that his visitors would arrive in a few minutes.

They were punctual and Osborn got up when his agent and another man came
in. Hayes was tall, urbane, and dressed with rather fastidious neatness;
Bell was round-shouldered and shabby. He had a weather-beaten skin, gray
hair, and small, cunning eyes. Osborn indicated chairs and sat down at
the top of the big table. He disliked business and knew the others meant
to persuade him to do something he would sooner leave alone. This would
have been impossible had he not needed money.

"Mr. Bell wishes to know if his tender for the Slate Company's haulage