By George Manville Fenn.
CREAK! crawk! And then thud! splish! splash! and a horrible echoing, whispering sound, as the water drawn up by the two men at the winch rose some ten feet higher, where each bucket in turn was caught by a check and reversed, to pour its contents into a huge cistern to supply the drinking water at the Castle.
I, Charles Lester, had climbed the down after my early morning visit to the sea beneath the cliffs, where a plunge down into the clear depths had sent an electric thrill through me. There I had swum and dived for ten minutes, dressed in the warm sunshine, and tramped back over the cliff slope where Lord Gurtleigh's flock of Southdowns were nibbling the short dewy herbage and giving their mutton a gamey flavour by crunching up the thousands of tiny snail-shells as well.
I was satisfied with the look of the flock, laughed to myself as I thought what a farmer, bailiff, and general man of business I was growing in dear old Dick's interest, and had then gone round so as to pass through the gardens and let the men see I was about.
"I know they'll call me a nigger driver," I said to myself, "but they've all had too easy a time of it during Dick's minority, and things have been shamefully neglected." And then I mused on my plans respecting the management of the estate as I went back to the Castle, making up my mind that as Gurtleigh had placed everything in my hands, I would have none but good men about the place. Everything should be honest and above board; and so it fell out that I was walking back to my room, through the yard, at seven o'clock that bright summer morning, meaning to do a couple of hours' writing and account reading, when I heard the squealing and creaking of the wheel in the well-house with its high-pitched roof.
I turned sharply, entering the great stonepaved, wet place, where a man was grinding away on either side of the opening, and came plump—that's the correct word, and his appearance justified it—upon Brayson, the butler, standing there, slowly sipping a tumbler of water, and looking as clean-shaven and smooth as if he were by the sideboard in the dining-room, waiting at one of the meals.
"Good morning, sir."
"Morning, Brayson. Stop! Look here, my men, why, in heaven's name, don't you grease that wheel?"
The men ceased turning, and the one nearest touched his forehead.
"Be no good, sir. Her squeal again dreckerly, all on account o' the water."
"Then, grease it again, or oil it, or something!"
"Never have been greased," said the man on the other side, slowly, and in a way which seemed to say "What business is it of yours?"
Then let it be done before to-morrow morning," I said sharply. "The whole of the machine is eaten up with rust. Where's your common sense, men? Why, your work will be as easy again.—Do you do this often, Brayson?" I said.
"Every morning, sir," he replied obsequiously. "Winter and summer, I always have a glass of this water first thing. Finest drink in the world for your health. Will you try a glass, sir?"
"Well—yes."
Before I had finished speaking, he was
