“And as strong as a horse.”
“Ay, master, I am. I lifted our pony off his legs the other day.”
“And yet you’re afraid of that poor half-daft old woman.”
“Nay, nay, master; not afeard,” said Tom, stoutly. “I never felt afeard o’ Mother Goodhugh yet; but you see, if she do happen like to be a witch, it be just as well to be civil to her like, and not do anything to make her curse one.”
“Curses don’t do any harm, Tom, my lad,” said the founder.
“I hope they don’t, master, for Mother Goodhugh do curse you a deal.”
“Let her,” said the founder.
“Shall I fetch they crumbs in a trug, master?” said Tom, watching intently the formation of the cucumber-bed.
“We will have the bed a deal higher yet, Tom, and put the crumbs on the top, and a couple o’ hills of nice warm earth a’top o’ that. We must have some finer cucumbers this year than Dame Beckley grows up at the Moat.”
The manufacture of the cucumber-bed went on, and Tom Croftly had the satisfaction of fetching the “crumbs” in a trug or truck-basket; after which, the founder and he had a long turn at the patch of hops, which had been growing rather wild and away from their poles. The wild ones were carefully twisted round the supports, and tied at intervals with rushes to keep them in place, after which, it being seven o’clock, the founder proposed breakfast, and led the way to the house.