“No, sir. They’ll all come little teeny rubbidging things big as black currants, and no better.”
“Ah, you’ll see,” cried Norman.
“Oh yes, I shall see, sir. I ain’t been a gardener for five-and-twenty years without knowing which is the blade of a spade and which is the handle.”
“Of course you haven’t,” said Tim.
“Thankye, Master ’Temus. You always was a gentleman as understood me, and when we gets there—if ever we does get there, which I don’t believe, for I don’t think as there is any there, and master as good as owned to it hisself, no later nor yes’day, when he laughed at me, and said as he didn’t know yet where he was a-going—I says, if ever we does get there, and you wants to make yourself a garden, why, I’ll help yer.”
“Thankye, Sam, you shall.”
“Which I will, sir, and the other young gents, too, if they wants ’em and don’t scorn ’em, as they used to do.”
“Why, when did we scorn gardens?” said the other two boys in a breath.
“Allus, sir; allus, if you had to work in ’em. But ye never scorned my best apples and pears, Master Norman; and as for Master Raffle, the way he helped hisself to my strorbys, blackbuds, and throstles was nothing to ’em.”
“And will again, Sam, if you grow some,” cried Rifle.