'Oh, yes, of course, dig down as deep as ever you can; you can't dig too deep, Stench—Tench, I mean!'
Ross thinks he knows a bit about gardening, so at lunch I said,—
'Ross, how big is a spit?'
'Depends on how bad your cold is,' he began, but I closed the conversation.
Alas, alas, hear the end. Half an hour later the S.P. said would I speak to the captain in the garden? I found him in front of the kitchen window surveying some extraordinary earth-works and excavations, the Stench standing by looking particularly wooden.
'What on earth——' I began.
'I've dug so deep, mum, I come to a poipe; do it matter?' said the boy.
I surveyed the scene of his labours and found the little wretch had dug down to the kitchen drain.
'Gardening is certainly your strong point, Meg. Do you think the boy has dug this bit deep enough, or shall he take up the drains as well? By Jove,' added my brother, doubling up suddenly with laughter, 'what an acquisition you'd both be in the army. I never saw a better communication trench in my life.'
At tea-time Ross gloomily surveyed the table lightly spread with thin bread and butter and minute cakes.