All we know
is that the old squire, Hawker, somehow ran through his money (and
his second wife's, I suppose, for she was rich enough), and sold the
estate to a man named Verner. What did he make his money in? Oil?
Army contracts?"
"I don't know," said Saltoun, looking at him thoughtfully.
"First thing I ever knew you didn't know," cried the exuberant
Harry.
"And there's more, besides," went on Horne Fisher, who seemed to
have suddenly found his tongue. "If we want country people to vote
for us, why don't we get somebody with some notion about the
country? We don't talk to people in Threadneedle Street about
nothing but turnips and pigsties. Why do we talk to people in
Somerset about nothing but slums and socialism? Why don't we give
the squire's land to the squire's tenants, instead of dragging in
the county council?"
"Three acres and a cow," cried Harry, emitting what the
Parliamentary reports call an ironical cheer.
"Yes," replied his brother, stubbornly. "Don't you think
agricultural laborers would rather have three acres and a cow than
three acres of printed forms and a committee? Why doesn't somebody
start a yeoman party in politics, appealing to the old traditions of
the small landowner? And why don't they attack men like Verner for
what they are, which is something about as old and traditional as an
American oil trust?"
"You'd better lead the yeoman party yourself," laughed Harry.
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