But Samson was a very ignorant man, who knew a great deal about gardening, but knew nothing whatever about the future, though in that instance his want of knowledge was shared by Fred and Scarlett, who, after resuming their jerkins, took, one the pole, the other the coil of neatly ringed rope, and trudged back to the Manor with Samson, who delivered quite a discourse upon waste of time; but he did not return to his digging, contenting himself with extracting his spade from the ground, wiping it carefully, and hanging it up in his tool-house, close to the lanthorn.
“Going home, Master Scarlett?” said Samson.
“Yes, directly.”
“Won’t have a mug o’ cider, I suppose?”
“No, thank ye, Samson.”
“Because I thought Master Fred was going to fetch some out, and you could have a drop too.”
“Hark at him, Scar! There never was such a fellow for cider.”
“Oh yes, there was; but I’ve yearned it anyhow to-day.”
“So you have, and I’ll fetch you a mug,” said Fred, darting off.
“Ah, that’s better,” grunted Samson. “Never such a fellow for cider! Why, my brother’s a deal worse than I am, and you wouldn’t ketch him leaving his work to take all the trouble I did to-day, Master Scarlett. Hah! here he comes back. Thank ye, Master Fred, lad. Hah! what good cider. Puzzle your Nat to make such stuff as that.”