“Don’t you send that ash flying and smothering me,” I cried, as Pomp, who was helping load and wheel the heap to the garden, began to sneeze violently.
“Then you shouldn’t make fun of a woman, sir, because she’s plain.”
“I didn’t,” I said, stoutly. “I meant lovely and well. And if you say your wife’s plain again, I’ll go and tell her so. She’s the dearest old motherly body that ever lived.”
Morgan drove his spade down into the earth, took my hand, and shook it solemnly, Pomp, who had ceased sneezing, looking on wonderingly the while.
“Thankye, Master George, thankye, sir; so she is—so she is.”
Pomp came forward and held out his hand.
“Well, what now?” growled Morgan.
“Tought Mass’ Morgan want shake hand,” said the boy.
“Get out with you, sir. Wheel that barrow right on to the bed next to the last load.”
Pomp seized the handles, went off with the barrow, caught the edge against the stump of a tree, one of the many not yet grubbed up, upset the ashes, and bounded off into the forest, to stand watching us from behind a tree, as if in dread of punishment; but seeing me roaring with laughter, he came cautiously back, grinning as if it was after all an excellent joke.