“Wish you would, sir, for he deserves it. A nasty, stuck-up, obstint fellow as never was. I never meet him without he wants to quarrel with me and fight. Thinks he’s the strongest man there is, and that he can do anything. And talk about a temper!”
“Shan’t,” cried Fred. “What do we want to talk about tempers for? Our Samson has got as good a temper as you have.”
“Nay, nay, Master Fred; now that aren’t a bit true. And I beg your pardon, sir: our Sampson’s father was my father.”
“Oh yes! and his mother was your mother. That’s what you always say.”
“Which it’s a truth, Master Fred,” said the gardener, reprovingly; “and Master Penrose say as a truth can’t be told too often.”
“Then I don’t think the same as Master Penrose. Do you, Scar?”
“No, of course not. Well, Nat, what were you going to say?”
“Only, sir, that Sampson’s my brother; but I’m mortal sorry as he’s the gardener for any friends of yours, for a worse man there never was in a garden, and I never see it without feeling reg’lar ashamed of the Manor.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Fred. “Why, that’s just what our Samson says about your garden.”
“What, sir? Our Samson said that about the Hall garden?”