“Eh, Miss ’Ronica, but the master ought to ha’ been a lord!” said old Thomas some days later, as he was nailing up some loose strands of clematis against the house; and he stopped for a moment to take a couple of garden nails from his mouth, for they hindered his speech, though he had removed a third from his lips when he began.
He was up on the ladder, ten feet from the ground, and kept looking down at Veronica for instructions.
“Nonsense, Thomas!” she said, rather pettishly; “and raise that long spray higher; I want it to go close up by my window.”
“You shall have him just where you like, miss; and I’ll give him some jooce at the roots to make him run faster. Hallo! what, have I got you, my fine fellow?” he continued, as he pounced upon a great snail which was having its day sleep after a heavy night’s feed, close up under the window-sill.
He descended the ladder slowly with his prize, and was about to crush it under his heel on the gravel path, when Veronica interposed.
“No, no!” she cried; “don’t do that. It is so horrid. I hate to see things killed.”
“But sneels do so much mischief, miss.”
“Never mind; throw it out into the field.”
“To be sure,” said the Doctor, coming along. “Do you know what Uncle Toby said, Thomas, to the fly?”
“Your Uncle Toby, sir? Nay.”