The Mystery of Monastery Farm | Page 4

are synonymous terms with the name of
Quintin. True as gold is Jerry Quintin. He always means what he says,
and says just what he means. Let me assure you, there is no truer man
in the Empire State than this same Quintin."
A few days later Sparrow found himself set ashore at Centerville
Landing at an early hour in the morning. The first thing he saw was a
plainly dressed man sitting in a buckboard who, as Sparrow approached,
accosted him with the words: "Mr. Sparrow, good morning. Glad to see
you. Expected to see an older man. Get in, we will go round and get
some breakfast and afterward go out to the farm."
After breakfast they drove along the river road, behind an excellent
team of bay horses, for a distance of about two miles, and drew up in
front of a large brick house.
"This is our farm, Mr. Sparrow. We will drive on to the farm and come
back to the house later."
Everything indicated thrift and prosperity. There was a great barn and
stables, a capacious warehouse, out-buildings of all sorts, corn houses,
hayricks, and a building for wheat, while nearby was a shed full of
modern agricultural machinery. They walked through the stables; five
fine horses occupied the stalls, while close at hand were not fewer than
a dozen Jersey cows.
Mr. Quintin was busy describing everything--and he knew all about
everything: buildings, their uses and cost; the horses, as he stroked the
nose of each--breed, age, peculiarities. Each cow and heifer he knew by
name and age. The machinery--he was familiar with its make and use
as well as its cost. If his eyes had been bandaged, apparently he could
have described everything on Monastery Farm.
They next drove back to the farmhouse. It was a substantial brick
building, containing twelve spacious rooms, furnished with plain,

rather old-fashioned furniture, and set back from the river road about
three hundred yards; it was surrounded by a well-kept lawn, and in all
respects, the place was inviting and homelike.
"Mr. Sparrow," said Quintin, "this farm contains two hundred and two
acres of arable land, good land, no better, in fact, in the country.
Besides, we have twenty acres of wooded land and a tenant house. This
machinery is the best that we could find. We have two men--Giles and
Ephraim; they are the best hands we know of, for Mr. Rixey trained
them from their boyhood; there are no better. Mr. Rixey was our farmer
twenty-six years. He died last November. Let us now have a look at the
Monastery."
Half a mile away they came to it, a large five-story brick building in the
midst of native oak trees; a wide driveway led up to the front door,
while in front was a sparkling fountain. Another, a smaller building,
occupied a site near by, and constituted the president's residence. The
whole was inclosed with a tall iron fence.
Years before our story begins this land (three hundred acres) was
donated by Richard Thorndyke, a wealthy Episcopalian, for a training
school for clergymen, to which gift was added as an endowment fund
one hundred thousand dollars on the condition that the church should
erect suitable buildings. Thorndyke Theological Seminary was its
original name; but, as the students as well as the teachers were all men,
the people soon began to call it the Monastery, and in the course of
years this became its common title; and the farm became known far and
wide as Monastery Farm. This institution had from its inception found
peculiar favor with the church as well as with the people, and the
buildings were speedily erected. Two men at first were enough to do
the teaching, as at the beginning there were only seventeen pupils,
several of these students earning their tuition by working upon the farm.
But at the time to which this story points one hundred and seventy-two
students and nine professors composed the faculty besides the president,
and the school was known as Monastery Classical and Theological
College.
This inexperienced young Englishman as he saw all this became

dismayed. This was too great an undertaking. He depreciated his own
ability. This was altogether too big a job. He remembered that Nancy
called it providential, but surely she was mistaken. What could he do
with all that machinery? True, he had successfully managed his father's
one-hundred-acre farm, but this farm was twice as large. There were
likewise oxen on the place, and he had never handled a yoke of oxen.
No; he would take the night boat home. Surely something more suitable
would turn up.
He almost regretted having seen the advertisement. However,
notwithstanding his lack of self-confidence, he presented to Mr.
Quintin the letter which the preacher in New