“I’ll never say another word, master, only that tool felt as if Mother Goodhugh had put a spell upon it. Hoop! wup!”
The two latter ejaculations were uttered by the founder’s man, as he lifted the barrow-handles, and then pushed the barrow along over the dewy grass-paths to where the cucumber-bed was to be made.
“Mother Goodhugh never put a spell on anything in her life,” said the founder, stoutly, as he began to unload the barrow in a little square marked out by four strong pegs.
“I dunno about that, master,” said Tom, rubbing his great bullet-head.
“Why, Tom, Tom, thou’rt never such a fool as to believe in ghosts, and sprites, and witches?” said the founder, arranging the stable manure carefully with the fork.
“Nay, nay, master. Oh, no. I don’t believe in ’em, but it was curus that the mould should blow up in that terrifying way after Mother Goodhugh had been.”
“Curious if it hadn’t,” cried the founder, patting down his work. “If Tom Croftly had given a look to the mould first, or if I had—as I ought to have done—there would have been no explosion.”
“Nay, master, I think she ill-lucked the mould.”
“And I think she poured a pail of water in, my lad. Why, Tom, you’re six feet one high.”
“Six foot two and a half, master,” said Tom, in a self-satisfied manner.