“Take the biggest basket, Nic,” said Hilda mischievously.
“Ah, you think I shan’t catch any,” said her brother, nodding his head; “but you’ll see.”
The rod was dusty, but good and strong, and in the bag the doctor pointed out there were plenty of good new hooks and lines; so leaving them ready, Nic went down the garden to where he expected to find old Sam.
Sure enough there he was hoeing away, and he stopped and wiped his perspiring face upon his arm as the boy came up.
“That’s right, sir,” he cried. “Glad to see you here. I want you to take a bit more hinterest in my garden. See they taters: ain’t they getting on? Look at my peas and beans too. I calls they a sight, I do. Make some o’ they gardeners in Old England skretch their wigs and wish they could grow things like ’em.”
“Beautiful, Sam; but—”
“There’s cauliflowers too, sir: ain’t they splendid?”
“Couldn’t be better, Sam; but—”
“Try my peas, sir.” Pop! “There’s a pod. Dozen fine uns, just as if they was a row o’ green teeth laughing at you.”
“Deliciously tender, Sam; but—”