“Ay, that’s it,” said the gardener. “Hair cut short, and looks very white. He’s a young luneattic come for the governor to cure. Well, if that’s going to be it, I shall resign my place.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Peter, who was moved to say it from the same feeling which induced the old woman to pray for long life to the tyrant—for fear they might get a worse to rule over them. “Doctor’ll make him better. Rum-looking little chap.”
As they spoke, they were carrying the ladder and board round to the back of the house, and, in doing so, they had to pass the kitchen door, where Maria was standing.
“See that game!” said Peter.
“Oh yes. I saw him out of one of the bedroom windows.”
“Young patient, ain’t he?” said Peter.
“Patient! Why, he’s a young workhouse boy as master’s took a fancy to. I never see such games, for my part.”
Peter whistled, and the head-gardener repeated his determination to resign.
“And he’ll never get another gardener like me,” he said.
“That’s a true word, Mr Copestake, sir,” said Peter seriously. And then to himself: “No, there never was another made like you, you old tyrant. I wish you would go, and then we should have a little peace.”