“Ah, he’s a rum un, that he is,” said Peter. “And master’s a rum un; and how they can take to that boy, Miss Helen specially, and have him here’s more’n I can understand. It caps me, that it do.”
“Wait a bit, my lad, and you’ll see,” cried the old gardener. “He’s begun his games just as such a boy would, and afore long this here garden will be turned into such a wreck as’ll make the doctor tear his hair, and wish as he’d never seen the young rascal. He’s a bad un; you can see it in his eye. He’s got bad blood in him, and bad blood allus comes out sooner or later. Peter Cribb, my lad—”
“Yes.”
“We’re getting old fellow-servants, though you’re only young. Peter, my lad, I’m beginning to tremble for my fruit.”
“Eh?”
“Yes; that I am, my lad,” said Dan’l in a whisper. “Just as I expected—I was watching of him—that rip’s took up with bad company, Poacher Dimsted’s boy; and that means evil. They was talking together, and then young Dimsted see me, and run away.”
“Did he?”
“Did he? Yes, he just did; and you mark my words, Peter Cribb, it will not be long before the gov’ner gets rid of him.”
“Oh yes; it’s a very beautiful fish,” said the doctor testily; “but make haste in. There, run and get all your wet things off as quickly as you can.”
Dexter was so deeply interested in the silvery scales and graceful shape of his fish that he hardly heard the doctor’s words, which had to be repeated before the boy started, nodded shortly, and ran off toward the house, while his patron walked to a garden chair, sat down, and gazed up at Helen in a perplexed way.