“Yes, lots of times.”
Nat had a hoe in his hand, and he let the shaft fall into the hollow of his arm as he moistened his hands, took a fresh hold of the ash pole as if it was a quarter-staff, and made half a dozen sharp blows at nothing before letting the tool resume its place on the earth.
“That’s what’s going to happen to Samson Dee next time we meets, Master Fred; so p’raps you’ll be good enough to tell him what he has got to expeck.”
“Tell him yourself, Nat,” said Scarlett, shortly. “Come along, Fred.”
The gardener stood looking after them till they disappeared through the great door of the Hall, and then went on hoeing up weeds very gently, as if he did not like to injure their tender fibres.
“Master Samson won’t be happy till I’ve given him stick enough to make his bones sore. Hah! we shall have to get it over somehow. Samson won’t be content till we’ve had it out.”
The supper of those days was ready when the boys entered the great dining-room, Fred having declared himself ravenous while upstairs in Scarlett’s bedroom, where, the lads being much of a size, he had been accommodated with a complete change, even to dry shoes.
Sir Godfrey and Lady Markham were waiting, the former looking very serious, and his countenance becoming more grave as he saw Fred enter.
“You bad boys,” whispered Scarlett’s sister, as she ran up to them, with her dark hair tossed about her shoulders. “Father was beginning to scold.”
“How do, Lady Markham?” said Fred, and her ladyship looked troubled as she took the boy’s hand. “How do, sir? It was so late, and I am so hungry, that I thought you would not mind my stopping to supper with Scar.”