“Sick on it, p’r’aps,” grumbled the gardener; “and no wonder. We are.”
“What! Are you afraid?” cried Nic.
“No, sir, I aren’t afraid; on’y sick on it. I like a good fight, and so do these here when it’s ’bout fair and ekal, but every time we has a go in t’other side seems to be the flails and we only the corn and straw. They’re too many for us. I’m sick o’ being thrashed, and so’s these here; and that aren’t being afraid.”
“Why, you aren’t going to sneak out of it, are you?” growled Solly.
“No, I aren’t,” said the gardener; “not till I’ve had a good go at that Pete Burge and Master Humpy Dee. But I’m going to sarcumwent ’em this time.”
“Here are the others coming, Bill,” cried Nic.—“What are you going to do this time?” he said to the gardener.
“Sarcumwent ’em, Master Nic,” said the man, with a grin. “It’s no use to hit at their heads and arms or to poke ’em in the carcass—they don’t mind that; so we’ve been thinking of it out, and we three’s going to hit ’em low down.”
“That’s good,” said Solly; “same as we used to sarve the black men out in Jay-may-kee. They’ve all got heads as hard as skittle-balls, but their shins are as tender as a dog’s foot.”
Just then five more men came up and received their cudgels; and directly after three more came slouching up; and soon after another couple, and received their arms.
“Is this all on us?” said one of the fresh-comers, as the sturdy fellows stood together.