The gardener took no notice of her remark.
“Awa’ wi’ ye!” he cried again, yet more wrathfully, “—or—”
He raised his hand.
Clare looked in his eyes and did not budge.
“For shame, John!” expostulated the cook. “Would you strike a child?”
“I’m no child, cook!” said Clare. “He can’t hurt me much. I’ve had a good breakfast!”
“Lat ’im tak’ awa’ that deevil o’ a tyke o’ his, as I tauld him,” thundered the gardener, “or I’ll mak’ a pulp o’ ’im!”
“I’ve had such a breakfast, sir, as I’m bound to give a whole day’s work in return for,” said Clare, looking up at the angry man; “and I won’t stir till I’ve done it. Stolen food on my stomach would turn me sick!”
“Gien it did, it wadna be the first time, I reckon!” said the gardener.
“It would be the first time!” returned Clare. “You are very rude.—If Abdiel understood Scotch, he would bite you,” he added, as the dog, hearing his master speak angrily, came up, ears erect, and took his place at his side, ready for combat.