“No, I didn’t; I never desarted no king. I wasn’t the king’s servant, lad.”
“Yes, you was.”
“Not I, Natty. I was master’s servant, and he says, ‘Will you come and fight for me, Samson,’ he says, ‘against oppression?’ ‘’Course I will, master,’ I says. ‘And handle a sword instead of a spade,’ he says. ‘You give me hold of one, master,’ I says, ‘and I’ll show you.’ That’s how it was, Natty.”
“Your master’s a bad man, and him and you will be hung or chopped as sure as you’re alive.”
“You always was a muddlehead, Natty. It’s your master as is the bad man; Colonel Forrester’s a thorough gentleman, and we always had better fruit and garden stuff at the Manor than you had at the Hall, and that’s what makes you so wild against me.”
“Yah! Why, you never grew anything but weeds at the Manor. Your garden was just as if pigs had got into it.”
“Did you think so, Natty?” said Samson, good-temperedly.
“Yes.”
“That shows what I say ’s right. You always was such a muddlehead that you couldn’t tell good from bad, and you don’t know any better now. Poor old Nat, I don’t bear you any malice or hatred in my heart. I’m sorry for you.”
Nat ground his teeth gently, for his brother’s easy-going way angered him.