“Next Thursday, I’m told.”

“There’s no hurry with weather like this,” said Nupper professionally.

“They can’t open the will till the late squire is buried,” continued the innkeeper, “and there will be one or two very anxious to know what is in it”

“I suppose it will all go to the man who lives up here at Hoppet Hall,” said the Captain,—­“a man that was never outside a horse in his life!”

“He’s not a bad fellow,” said Runciman.

“He is a very good fellow,” said the Attorney, “and I trust he may have the property.  If it be left away from him, I for one shall think that a great injustice has been done.”  This was listened to with attention, as every one there thought that Mr. Masters must know.

“I can’t understand,” said Glomax, “how any man can be considered a good fellow as a country gentleman who does not care for sport.  Just look at it all round.  Suppose others were like him what would become of us all?”

“Yes indeed, what would become of us?” asked the two Botseys in a breath.

“Ho’d ’ire our ’orses, Runciman?” suggested Harry Stubbings with a laugh.

“Think what England would be!” said the Captain.  “When I hear of a country gentleman sticking to books and all that, I feel that the glory is departing from the land.  Where are the sinews of war to come from?  That’s what I want to know.”

“Who will it be, Mr. Masters, if the gent don’t get it?” asked Ribbs from his corner on the sofa.  This was felt to be a pushing question.  “How am I to know, Mr. Ribbs?” said the Attorney.  “I didn’t make the late squire’s will; and if I did you don’t suppose I should tell you.”

“I’m told that the next is Peter Morton,” said Fred Botsey.  “He’s something in a public office up in London.”

“It won’t go to him,” said Fred’s brother.  “That old lady has relations of her own who have had their mouths open for the last forty years”

“Away from the Mortons altogether!” said Harry.  “That would be an awful shame!”

“I don’t see what good the Mortons have done this last half century,” said the Captain.

“You don’t remember the old squire, Captain,” said the innkeeper, “and I don’t remember him well.  Indeed I was only a little chap when they buried him.  But there’s that feeling left behind him to this day, that not a poor man in the country wouldn’t be sorry to think that there wasn’t a Morton left among ’em.  Of course a hunting gentleman is a good thing.”

“About the best thing out,” said the Captain.

“But a hunting gentleman isn’t everything.  I know nothing of the old lady’s people,—­only this that none of their money ever came into Dillsborough.  I’m all for Reginald Morton.  He’s my landlord as it is, and he’s a gentleman.”

“I hate foreigners coming,” said Ribbs.