“Why, you’ve got the pauper there!” cried Philip. “I say, did you know he was a pauper?”
“No,” said Bunce, “I didn’t know. Do you want your legs ampytated?”
“No, stoopid, of course I don’t.”
“Then get outer the way or I shall take ’em off like carrots.”
“Get out!” said Philip, as I saw that he was watching me. “I say, though, did you know that he was a pauper, and lived on skilly?”
“No,” said the gardener quietly; and I felt as if I must get up and go away, for now I knew I should be a mark of contempt for the whole staff who worked in the garden.
“He was,” said Philip.
“Pauper, was he?” said Bunce, making his scythe glide round in a half circle. “I shouldn’t ha’ thought it.”
“Oh but he was or is, and always will be,” said the boy maliciously. “Once a pauper always a pauper. Look at him.”
“I’ve been a looking at him,” said Bunce slowly, for he was a big meditative man, and he stood upright, took a piece of flannel from the strap that supported his whetstone sheath, and wiped the blade of the scythe.