“And I say it ought to have four,” said the founder, tartly. “Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it.”
“Ay, and ’most breaks a man’s back,” grumbled Tom Croftly. “Falls through? Why, of course it does. That’s nat’ral, and as it should. It’s the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi’ a shovel. ’Taint like having a holiday to work wi’ a tool like that.”
“There, get on,” said the founder, “and don’t grumble. Lend me the fork.”
He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, “There, you can’t do better than that.”
“And where’s your crumbs to finish off with at the top?” grumbled Tom Croftly. “We shan’t get much of a cucumber-bed, you’ll see.”
“Look here, Tom Croftly, if you’re going to grumble like this, we’ll go back to the foundry-work.”
“Nay, nay, master.”
“Thou askedst for a holiday, and I said ‘yes,’ and here it is.”
“And my garden wanted it badly, master.”
“Yes; but I’m not going to holiday keep with a grumbler.”