“Here, you two,” he growled, “nearly done?” an unnecessary question, for he knew that their task to be done thoroughly would take them some hours at their rate of working.
“Do you hear, you charcoal-faced beggars?” he shouted; but of course all was still, and satisfying himself, by picking up a manure fork, that they were not asleep in a heap of straw by jobbing the handle in savagely, after making an offer with the tines, he uttered a low growl, and, fork in hand, went out to look sharply round about the yards; but not a soul was in sight.
“Ah!” muttered Brookes, “that’s it, is it? Cuss ’em, I might have known.” Then, urged by a sudden thought, he went back into the long cow-shed, and looked round till he caught sight of the old trousers and shirts lying in a heap.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, shaking the fork handle, “just wait till they come back. I’ll make them see stars.”
Then, striding out, he made for the garden, where, with his sleeves rolled up and the neck and breast of his shirt open, old Samson was digging away, turning over the moist earth, and stooping every now and then to pick out some weed that was sure not to rot.
“Hi, Sam!” cried Brookes.
“Hullo!” said the little old fellow, going on with his digging, whistling softly the while.
“Where’s Bungarolo?”
“Down yonder weeding.”
“Nay,” he cried.