“What were you thinking, then?” said Fred, anxiously.
“Well, sir, to speak the plain, downright, honest truth, as a Coombeland man should, whether he be a soldier or a gardener—”
“Yes, yes. Go on. You talk too much, Samson,” said Fred, pettishly, for he was faint and sore.
“Well, sir, suppose I do. But I aren’t neglecting anything, and there’s nothing else to do. Seems quite a rest to hear one’s self speak.”
“Then speak out, and say what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking, sir, that I wish I was a horse just now.”
“A horse? Why?”
“So as I could have a good fill of water, and keep on taking a bite of sweet fresh green grass.”
“Why, Samson!”
“Ah, you don’t know, Master Fred. I’m that hungry, it wouldn’t be safe to trust me anywhere near meat; and not so much as a turnip anywhere, nor a chance to catch a few trout. I wish I could tickle a few; I’d eat ’em raw.”