“We never knew, Miss; we hunted high and low for him, but he never came back again, so now we haven’t any time at all worth speaking of. The King’s Minstrel, he said as how he would teach us to make time, but bless you, Miss, the time we gets nowadays ain’t no ways to be compared to the old time what we used to have, no more than string is like tobaccer, Miss. Why, our time is awful mixed; look at us now, for example, we’re in the middle of next week to-day, and to-morrow is as likely as not to be the day before yesterday. That’s why I’m cutting these plants down and putting them into smaller pots, you know, Miss. Then take the length of the days,” he went on, “some is that short as you don’t know how to get your clothes on before it’s time to go to bed again, and others is that long as you’re obliged to have eight or nine dinners a day, or you would starve. Then the days of the week, too, there’s no depending on them; if you’ll believe me, Miss, I’ve known no less than thirteen Fridays in one week, which is most unlucky. And last year Midsummer day was only two days before Christmas, after which we had three New Year’s days running. As for birthdays, Miss, it’s quite impossible to tell how old you are. My son Bill, for instance, has had ever so many more birthdays than me, owing to his having been born in March, and a little while ago it kept on being March over and over again, till I should think that poor boy is a hundred, if he’s a day. Then, again, how are you to know what wages to expect when you can’t tell yourself from one day to another whether you’ll have been in a place three years and nine months or only two months and a day?”
“It certainly must be very puzzling,” said Girlie, who had been listening most attentively.
“Puzzling ain’t the word, Miss,” said the Gardener. “Why, look at my poor daughter, now, she was to have been married on the 19th of June, and dash me if there’s been any 19th of June for these last twenty years or more, and now her husband that was to be, young Spuffles, the Miller’s son, has gone and failed through having put some Mustard in with his flour by accident.”
“Oh, I heard the Miller’s son had some mustard,” remarked Girlie, remembering the Schoolmistress’s question.
“Where did you hear of it, Miss? if I may be so bold,” asked the Gardener.
“Oh, it was one of the questions at the Public Meeting,” said Girlie. “The Schoolmistress asked ‘Has the son of the Miller the mustard of the daughter of the Gardener?’”
“It’s like her imperence,” said the Gardener; “but there, she always was a busy body, she was. Drat the hat!” he continued, as a high hat dropped down with a loud crash on the top of the conservatory and then rolled off on to the lawn. “They’re having a Hat Hunt somewheres,” he went on, “and this here one has escaped them, I expect.”
“Whatever is a Hat Hunt?” asked Girlie curiously.
“Oh, it’s a kind of game, Miss, that they play hereabouts. It’s rare fun for them as can run quick.”
“How do they play it?” asked Girlie.