And the building of
the finest mansion never gave half so much satisfaction as did that of
this flimsy little wooden house, with its thin lath-and-plaster walls.
In fancy they had furnished it and lived in it, long before it was even
roofed in. Mahony sat at work in his surgery--it measured ten by twelve
--Polly at her Berlin-woolwork in the parlour opposite: "And a cage with
a little parrot in it, hanging at the window."
The preliminaries to the change had gone smoothly enough--Mahony could
not complain. Pleasant they had not been; but could the arranging and
clinching of a complicated money-matter ever be pleasant? He had had to
submit to hearing his private affairs gone into by a stranger; to make
clear to strangers his capacity for earning a decent income.
With John's promissory letter in his pocket, he had betaken himself to
Henry Ocock's office.
This, notwithstanding its excellent position on the brow of the western
hill, could not deny its humble origin as a livery-barn. The entry was
by a yard; and some of the former horse-boxes had been rudely knocked
together to provide accommodation. Mahony sniffed stale dung.
In what had once been the harness-room, two young men sat at work.
"Why, Tom, my lad, you here?"
Tom Ocock raised his freckled face, from the chin of which sprouted some
long fair hairs, and turned red.
"Yes, it's me. Do you want to see 'En--" at an open kick from his
brother--"Mr. Ocock?"
"If you please.
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