“Ah,” said the Squire, “have a look at your lessons. You have not touched them all through the holidays.”
“Oh-h-h—Ah-h-h—Er-r-r—Um-m-m,” groaned the boys. “Oh, Pa; oh-h-h,” they exclaimed, with such pitiful faces that any one might have thought that they had been required to quaff, each of them, a great goblet of salts and senna, or something equally nasty.
Mr and Mrs Inglis both laughed heartily, and the boys then saw that Papa was only joking, and the clouds disappeared from their faces instanter; and off they scampered into the garden to spend the morning quietly, so as not to be tired at the time appointed for starting.
“Come on, boys,” said Harry, taking flying leaps over all the flower-beds in the parterre, as they went down the garden—greatly to the disgust of old Sam, who very reasonably said, “As flower-gardens warn’t made to be jumped over;” and he then took off his old battered hat, and scratched his bald head viciously.
“Shouldn’t I like to kick old Sam’s hat!” said Philip; “he always will wear such an old scarecrow of a thing.”
“I say, Sam,” said Harry, grinning, “we are going to stop quietly in the garden all the morning and help you.”
Sam grinned too, as he looked sideways at the mischievous laughing face beside him.
“Then I shall go,” said Sam. “I won’t stop; for I know you’ll be plaguing my very life out.”
“No, we won’t, Sam, if you’ll come and help us do our gardens up.”
“Oh, ah!” said Sam, “and I’ve got no end of things as wants doing: there’s all the wall fruit wants nailing in, and the grapes wants thinning, and— There now, just look at that! Master Harry, you mustn’t. If you don’t put it down directly, I’ll go and fetch out the Maester.”