“What’s the good of flowers, sir? I want taters.”
“Well, we are going to grow some soon, and everything else too.”
“Oh! are we?” growled Sam. “Get on, will yer?”—this to the horse. “Strikes me as the captain’s going to find out something out here.”
“Of course he is—find a beautiful estate, and make a grand farm and garden.”
“Oh! is he?” growled Sam. “Strikes me no he won’t. Grow taters, will he? How does he know as they’ll grow?”
“Because it’s such beautiful soil, you can grow Indian corn, sugar, tobacco, grapes, anything.”
“Injun corn, eh? English corn’s good enough for me. Why, I grew some Injun corn once in the hothouse at home, and pretty stuff it was.”
“Why, it was very handsome, Sam,” said Rifle.
“Hansum? Tchah. What’s the good o’ being hansum if you ain’t useful?”
“Well, you’re not handsome, Sam,” said Norman, laughing.