“No; there is no one to tell him.  I suppose Mr. Fairfield tells him a smooth story, and he believes it.  I am afraid we can hope for no relief.”

“What would he say,” thought Frank, “if he knew I were a messenger from Mr. Percival?”

“What sort of a man is this Mr. Fairfield in private life?” he asked.

“He drinks like a fish,” was the unexpected reply.  “Frequently he appears on the street under the influence of liquor.  He spends a good deal of money, lives in a large house, and his wife dresses expensively.  He must get a much larger salary than Mr. Sampson did, or he could not spend money as he does.”

Though Frank had not much worldly experience, he could not help coming to the conclusion that Mr. Fairfield was acting dishonestly.  He put together the two circumstances that this new agent had increased the rents, and yet that he had returned to Mr. Percival only about half as much as his predecessor had done.  Clearly, he must retain in his own hands much more than he had a right to do.

“I shall have to report unfavorably on this man,” he thought.

One point must be considered—­where he was to find a boarding place on his arrival in Jackson.

“Is there a hotel in Jackson?” he asked.

“There is a tavern, but it’s a low place,” answered the farmer.  “A good deal of liquor is sold there, and Mr. Fairfield, our agent, is one of the most constant patrons of the bar.”

“I don’t think I should like to stop there,” said Frank.  “Isn’t there any private family where I can get board for a week or two?”

“If you don’t object to plain fare,” said the farmer, “I might agree to board you myself.”

This was precisely what Frank wanted, and he replied that nothing would suit him better.

“We live humbly,” continued Mr. Hamlin—­for this, Frank learned, was his driver’s name—­“but we will try to make you comfortable.”

“I feel sure of that, sir, and I am much obliged to you for receiving me.”

“As to terms, you can pay whatever you can afford.  My wife and children will be glad to see you.  It’s pretty quiet out here, and it breaks the monotony to meet any person from the East.”

“How long have you lived in Jackson, Mr. Hamlin?”

“About eight years.  I was not brought up as a farmer, but became one from necessity.  I was a bookkeeper in Chicago for a good many years, until I found the confinement and close work were injuring my health.  Then I came here and set up as a farmer.  I got along pretty well, at first; at any rate, I made a living for my family; but when Mr. Fairfield became agent, he raised my rent, and, in other ways, made it hard for me.  Now I have a hard struggle.”

“I thought you were not always a farmer,” said Frank.

“What made you think so?”

“You don’t talk like a farmer.  You have the appearance of a man who has lived in cities.”