The landlord crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the fire. He did it calmly, methodically, without a hint of rage on his face.
The islanders had called for a rent strike. Foolishness. Was there not fruit to sell? No shells to collect? And certainly his mortgages were high, but he never charged a bell of interest.
He’d made his connections, and he treated them well. But this? This was an insult. And he knew who was to blame.
The Resident Representative was about to learn that Tom Nook was the one animal you should never cross.

 Support Me on Ko-fi