“To make a swing with, of course. Well, then, you can’t have it.”
“Can’t I?” said Fred, sharply. “We’ll soon see about that. Come along, Scar. Any one would think the ropes were his.”
“Look here, Master Fred, if you—”
Samson ceased speaking, for he was wise enough to see that he was wasting words in shouting after the two lads. But he began muttering directly about a “passell o’ boys” coming and bothering him when he hadn’t a moment to spare.
“And look here,” he shouted, as he saw his visitors trotting off with a coil of strong new rope belonging to the waggon, “mind you bring that rope back again. Now, I wonder what them two are going to do?” he ended by muttering, and then set to work digging once more, but in so slow and methodical a fashion that the worms had plenty of time to get away from the sharp edge of the spade before it was driven home and cut them in half.
“Poor old Samson!” said Fred; “he seems to think that everything belongs to him.”
“So does our Nat,” replied Scarlett. “I often fancy he thinks I belong to him as well, from the way he shouts and orders me about.”
“But you never do what he tells you.”
“Of course not; and— Oh, Fred!”
“What’s the matter?”