“Yah! Not he, Wimble. He’s dead on to the young missus.”
“No, no, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, waving his razor; “you’ll excuse me. You’re wrong there.”
“Wrong?” cried the gardener, excitedly. “Bet you a shilling on it. No, I don’t want to rob you, because I know.”
“Well, you may know a deal about gardening, Mr Brime,” said Wimble deprecatingly, as he shook his head shrewdly; “but fax is fax.”
“Not always, Wimble. You won’t let it go no further, because he’s a good sort.”
“If you feel as you can’t trust me, Mr Brime, sir,” said the barber, laying down the razor and taking up the brush and shaving pot once more to dip the former very slowly in the hot water.
“Oh, you won’t tell,” said Brime, who had calmed his excitement with a great many glasses of the household ale at the Fort. “You’re all wrong. Mr Lisle’s after our young Miss still; and—you mark my words—as soon as they decently can, they’ll marry.”
“No, sir, no,” said Wimble, shaking his head, with his eyes fixed upon his best razor, and his mind upon Mrs Sarson; “you’re wrong.”
“Why, he was up at our place to see her only last night.”
“No!”