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that appealed to Mr. Bensington's sympathies, and a manifest 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 it 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 as far as I
can make 'im out 'e theems to be a thtewpid o' fool."
"I thought 'e seemed a bit Dotty," said the carpenter from
Hickleybrow.
"'E fanthieth 'imself about poultry," said Mr. Skinner. "O my goodneth!
You'd think nobody knew nothin' about poultry thept 'im."
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