“No, but you’ve hid them away somewhere; so tell us directly.”
“Stilts—stilts,” said Sam, wonderingly; “what’s stilts?”
“Why, you know well enough,” said Philip; “and I know you’ve hid them away somewhere, because you thought we should forget them and not want them any more; so come now, Sam, tell us where they are, or we’ll all begin to plague you.”
“No, I weant,” said Sam, throwing off all disguise. “You don’t want them, and you’ll only go ‘brog—brog’ all down the walks, making the place full of holes, and worse than when people has been down ’em in pattens. I weant tell ee, theer,” said the old man, defiantly, in his broad Lincolnshire dialect.
“Yes, you will,” said Harry; “now come.”
“I weant,” said the old man again, beginning to mow.
“Never mind,” said Harry, “we’ll go and have a look at the wasps’ nest, and see if they are all killed, and then I know what we’ll do. I say, Fred,” he said loudly, “Phil and I will show you how they thin grapes.”
“Oh! laws,” said old Sam to himself, and bursting out into a cold perspiration, for his grapes were the greatest objects of his pride, and he used to gain prizes with them at the different horticultural shows in the district. Even Mr Inglis himself never thought of laying a profaning hand upon his own grapes, until Sam had cut them and brought them in for dessert; and now the young dogs were talking of thinning them, and the sharp-pointed scissors lay all ready; and what was worse, the key was in the door of the green-house.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Sam, throwing down his scythe, and hobbling off after the boys, who kept provokingly in front, and popped into the green-house just before him. “There,” he said, “I’m bet out with you; come out, and I’ll tell ee wheer the stilts are.”
“Honour bright, Sam?” said Harry.