“Nay, Master Fred, never!”
“I’m going to meet him this afternoon, and we’ll talk it over.”
Samson shook his head.
Home studies were over for the day, and by a natural attraction, Fred started by a short cut to the high point of the moor, just at the same time as Scar Markham left the Hall for the same spot.
“He’ll be in some mischief or another before he gets back,” said Samson Dee, as he ceased digging, and rested one foot upon the top of his spade, watching his young master contemplatively as he went along the road for a short distance before leaping up the bank, and beginning to tramp among heath, brake, and furze, over the springy turf.
Samson shook his head sadly, and sighed as he watched Fred’s progress, the figure growing smaller and smaller, sometimes disappearing altogether in a hollow, and then bounding into sight again like one of the moorland sheep.
“Yes; some mischief!” sighed Samson again, and he watched the lad with the sorrowful expression on the increase, till the object of his consideration was out of sight, when he once more sighed, and recommenced digging. “You don’t catch me, though, making it up.”
Oddly enough—perhaps it would be more correct to say naturally enough—Nat Dee ceased digging up in the Hall garden to watch Scarlett Markham, who, after sending his sister Lil back into the house in tears, because he refused to take her with him, started off at a rapid pace.
“Wonder what mischief he’s going to be at,” said Nat, half aloud; and he, too, rested a foot on the top of his spade, and contemplated the retiring form.
Perhaps, after all, digging is exceedingly hard work, and a break is very welcome; but whether it be so or no, the fact is always evident that a gardener is ready to cease lifting the fat mellow earth of a garden, and stand and think upon the slightest excuse.