“Ezacally so, dear sir. Under-gardener beneath Smallridge—a man three year younger than me. But ban’t for me to tell my parts. All the same, I wouldn’t work under Smallridge, not for money, if I could help it. Very rash views he’ve got ’bout broccoli, not to name roots an’ sparrowgrass.”
“Terrible wilful touching fruit, also, they tells me,” added Mrs. Hannaford.
“Well, you must come, I suppose. I could hardly turn you out of your old garden; nor is there any need to do so.”
“An’ thank you with all my heart, your honour; an’ you’ll never regret it so long as I be spared.”
“The extra shilling you shall have. As to a boy, I want a stable-boy, and he’ll be able to lend you a hand in the summer.”
Mr. Hannaford nodded, touched his forehead, and mentally arranged a full programme for the boy.
“Enough said, then. On Monday I shall expect you, and will walk round with you myself and say what I’ve got to say. Good-bye for the present.”
Mr. Budd rose, and the old pair, with many expressions of satisfaction, were about to depart when their vicar spoke again.
“One more matter I may mention, though doubtless there is no necessity to do so with two such sensible people. There are more sects and conventicles here than I like to find in such a very small parish. Of course you come to church every Sunday, Mr. Hannaford?”
“As to that, your honour—” began Joseph; then his wife silenced him.