‘Not me, sorr! And what might your honour be after with those words?’
‘You weed in the French way,’ Richard returned—‘on hands and knees instead of stooping.’
It was a wild statement, but it served as well as another.
‘I’ve never been to France but once, your honour, and then I didn’t get there, on account of the sea being so unruly. ’Twas a day trip to Boulogne from London, and sure we had everything in the programme except Boulogne. ’Twas a beautiful sight, Boulogne, but not so beautiful as London when we arrived back at night, thanks to the Blessed Virgin.’
‘Then you are a French scholar?’ said Richard.
‘Wee, wee, bong, merci! That’s me French, and it’s proud I am of it, your honour. I’ve no other tricks.’
‘Haven’t you!’ thought Richard; and he passed into the house.
Mike proceeded calmly with his weeding. On inquiry for Miss Craig, Bridget, with a look which seemed to say ‘Hands off,’ informed him that the young lady was in the orchard. He accordingly sought the orchard, and discovered Teresa idly swinging in a hammock that was slung between two apple-trees.
‘Well, Mr. Redgrave,’ she questioned, ‘have you found that lost screw?’
‘I have found it,’ he said, ‘and put both cars in order. What with three cars and two horses, you and Mr. Craig should be tolerably well supplied with the means of locomotion.’