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Updated: June 8, 2025
To be frank with you, I don't like mysteries. If you've anything to say, out with it." "Right!" Richard Fardell answered. "I am going to ask you a question, Mr. Mannering. Go back a good many years, as many years as you like. Is there anything in your life as a younger man, say when you first entered Parliament, which if it were brought up against you now might be embarrassing?"
My pals must starve for the gratification of your intellectual vanity. You won't listen to Tariff Reform. Then what do you propose, to light the forges and fill the mills? Nothing! I say, unless you've got a counter scheme of your own, you ought to try ours." "Come, Mr. Fardell," Mannering said, "I can assure you that all I have said and written is the outcome of honest thought. "Stop!"
"Woe betide," says Dibdin, "the young bibliomaniac who sets his heart upon Breton's Flourish upon Fancie and Pleasant Toyes of an Idle Head, 1557, 4to; or Workes of a Young Wyt trussed up with a Fardell of Pretty Fancies!! Threescore guineas shall hardly fetch these black-letter rarities from the pigeon-holes of Mr Thorpe. I lack courage to add the prices for which these copies sold."
It was one-storied, with thatched roof, gabled wings, and a projecting central porch. Here lived Mr. Raleigh of Fardell with his wife Katherine, four sons and a daughter. It was a large family for such a small estate, and already the father was wondering what would happen to the younger boys when the little property should have descended, according to the law of the land, to the oldest son.
"You mustn't think that we people who are responsible for the laws of the country ignore this, Mr. Fardell. It is a very anxious time indeed with all of us. Still, I presume you study the monthly trade returns. Some industries seem prosperous enough." "I'm no politician," Fardell answered, curtly. They're just the drugs some of your party use to keep your conscience quiet.
Then they walked up and down and across streets of small houses, pitiless in their monotony, squalid and depressing in their ugliness. Finally Fardell stopped, and without hesitation knocked at the door of one of them. It was opened by a man in shirt-sleeves, holding a tallow candle in his hand. "What yer want?" he inquired, suspiciously.
Mannering, who had been in the act of helping himself to a whiskey and soda, looked around with the decanter in his hand. "I don't understand you," he said, bewildered. "You know very well that the chances, so far as they can be reckoned up, are slightly in my favour." "They were!" Fardell answered. "Heaven knows what they are now." Mannering was a little annoyed.
"Pay 'is rent, and yer can chuck 'im out of the winder, if yer like!" They climbed the crazy staircase. Fardell opened the door of the room above without even the formality of knocking. An old man sat there, bending over a table, half dressed. Before him were several sheets of paper. "I believe we're in time," Fardell muttered, half to himself. "Parkins, is that you?" he asked, in a louder tone.
It is a country full of surprises. On a fine morning when Devon was looking its best, a boy came out of a dwelling that was half farmhouse, half manor-house, and that lay in a cup of low hills on the edge of a tract of moorland. The house belonged to a man named Walter Raleigh, of Fardell, a gentleman of good family whose fortunes had sunk to a low ebb.
"Your lodger," Fardell answered, pushing past him and drawing Mannering into the room. "Where is he?" The man jerked his thumb upwards. "Where he won't be long," he answered, shortly. "The likes of 'im having visitors, and one a toff, too. Say, are yer going to pay his rent?" "We may do that," Fardell answered. "Is he upstairs?" "Ay!" the man answered, shuffling away.
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