“’Tis in a nutshell, sir, an’ we won’t keep a busy gentleman from his business,” said the old woman, very politely. “Joseph here have been gardener at the vicarage, man an’ bwoy, for twenty-five years—ever since theer was a garden at all. He helped to cut out the peat an’ make the place, as was just a new-take from Dartymoor, though now ’tis so good stuff as ever growed a cabbage.”
“Ess fay; all rotted manure an’ butivul loam, so sweet as sugar, an’ drains like a sieve,” declared Joseph.
“I want a gardener, of course, and cannot do better than Mr. Hannaford, though I’m not sure if it isn’t too much for one elderly man.”
“It is!” almost shouted Joseph. “Never a Bible prophet said a truer word! Too much by half. Not that I’d demean myself to ax for another man, but a bwoy I should have, an’ I hope your honour will give me a bwoy, if ’tis only to fetch an’ carry.”
“What wages did you get from Mr. Truman?”
“Pound a week; an’ another shilling would be a godsend, if I may say it without offence.”
“An’ up to squire’s they only offered him seventeen an’ sixpence, with all his ripe experience,” said Mrs. Hannaford. “’Twould be a fine lesson in Christianity to squire, I’m sure, if you seed your way to twenty-one shilling.”
“Better than a waggon-load of sermons, if I may say so,” continued Joseph.
“A sight better, seeing squire’s not greatly ’dicted to church-gwaine, best of times,” chimed in Mrs. Hannaford.
“You’d be under-gardener there, no doubt?”