“You insolent scoundrel!” roared Sir Francis.
“All right, sir; scoundrel it is, just as you like. Wonder who’ll tell the truth, and who won’t?”
“Hold your tongue, Ike!” I said angrily.
Plop!
That strange sound was made by Ike, who struck his mouth with his hand as if to stop it up and prevent more words coming.
Meanwhile we were going up the garden, and came suddenly upon a spot of fire which kept glowing and fading, and resolved itself into Mr Solomon’s evening pipe in the kitchen-garden middle walk.
“Hallo! young gentlemen!” he exclaimed; and then, seeing his master: “Anything the matter, Sir Francis?”
“Matter!” cried Sir Francis, who was in a great passion. “Why are you, my head gardener, not protecting my place with the idle scoundrels I pay? Here am I and my sons obliged to turn out of an evening to keep thieves from the fruit.”
“Thieves! What thieves?” cried Mr Solomon. “Why, Isaac, what are you doing here?”
“Me!” said Ike. “Don’t quite know. Thought I’d been having a nap. The master says I’ve been stealing o’ pears.”