“Look here,” said the man: “your hands look a precious sight more like loafing than work! I don’t believe your work will be worth your dinner.”
“Then don’t give me any,” rejoined Cosmo, laughing. “If the proof of the pudding be in the eating, the proof of the stable must be in the cleaning. Let me see the place.”
Much pondering what a fellow scouring the country with a decent coat and no money could be, the dweller in the villa led the way to his stable.
In a mess that stable certainly was.
“The new man is coming this evening,” said the man, “and I would rather he didn’t see things in such a state. He might think anything good enough after this! The rascal took to drink—and that, young man,” he added in a monitory tone, “is the end of all things.”
“I’ll soon set the place to rights,” said Cosmo. “Let’s see—where shall I find a graip?”
“A grape? what the deuce do you want with grapes in a stable?”
“I forgot where I was, sir,” answered Cosmo, laughing. “I am a Scotchman, and so I call things by old-fashioned names. That is what we call a three or four-pronged fork in my country. The word comes from the same root as the German greifen, and our own grip, and gripe, and grope, and grab—and grub too!” he added, “which in the present case is significant.”
“Oh, you are a scholar—are you? Then you are either a Scotch gardener on the tramp after a situation, or a young gentleman who has made a bad use of his privileges!”
“Do you found that conclusion on my having no money, or on my readiness to do the first honest piece of work that comes to my hand?” asked Cosmo, who having lighted on a tool to serve his purpose, was already at work. “—But never mind! here goes for a clean stable and a good dinner.”