“Yes, Nat; true enough,” said the lad, proudly drawing himself up. “Sir Godfrey and I are going off to the wars to-morrow morning.”
“You, Master Scar? You?”
“Yes, Nat; to-morrow.”
“Why, dear heart alive, Master Scar, lad,” cried Nat, laying his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder, “it seems only t’other day as you used to come and coax me to leave my mowing and go on hands and knees to make a horse for you to ride, and now you’re talking about going to the war.”
“Yes, Nat. Time goes.”
“But, dear lad,” cried the gardener, letting his hand slide down to Scarlett’s biceps, “why, you haven’t got the muscle in your arm to handle a scythe, let alone a sword to mow down men.”
“I can’t help that, Nat,” cried Scarlett, angrily. “Let go. There’ll be muscle enough to thrash you some day.”
“I hope so, dear lad. But try and thrash brother Samson first. I should like to see you do that.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. And come along. I want to look at the horses.”
“But are you really going, Master Scar?”