Grange felt better, for in spite of his hectoring, triumphant manner, it was plain to see that Daniel Barnett had not sped well with Mary’s father, whatever might have been his success with the lady herself.
James Ellis was no longer young, and early work before breakfast had grown distasteful; still, he had come to see the broken stump sawn off.
The ladder had been raised, and got into position, but it was too short by ten feet, and there was an awkward climb before the man who went up could use the saw or attach the rope to keep the sawn-off stump from falling with a crash.
“Well,” said Ellis, “what are we waiting for?”
Old Tummus chuckled.
“Why when I first come to these here gardens five-and-forty years ago, I’d ha’ gone up there like a squirrel, Mr Ellis, sir; but these here fine new-fangled gardeners can’t do as we did.”
“Better go up now,” said Barnett.
“Nay, nay, my lad, sixty-eight’s a bit too ripe for climbing trees, eh, Master Ellis?”
“Yes, of course,” said the bailiff. “Come, get it done.”
“Do you hear, John Grange?” said Barnett. “Up with you. Better hitch the rope under that big bough, and saw the next. Make it well fast before you begin to saw.”