"It's the pupils as pay," said Mrs.
Skinner.
Mr.Skinner, when he appeared, was a large-faced man, with a lisp and a squint that made him look over the top of your head, slashed slippers 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.