“Don’t I tell yer it ain’t to be done, sir,” said Sam, giving his whip a vicious whish through the air, and making the horse toss its head, “Master grow taters? Tchah! not he. You see if they don’t all run away to tops and tater apples, and you can’t eat they.”
“Don’t be so prejudiced.”
“Me, sir—prejudiced?” cried the gardener indignantly. “Come, I do like that. Can’t yer see for yourselves, you young gents, as things won’t grow here proper?”
“No!” chorused the boys.
“Look at the flowers everywhere. Why, they’re lovely,” cried Norman.
“The flowers?” said Sam, contemptuously. “Weeds I call them. I ain’t seen a proper rose nor a love-lies-bleeding, nor a dahlia.”
“No, but there are plenty of other beautiful flowers growing wild.”
“Well, who wants wild-flowers, sir? Besides, I want to see a good wholesome cabbage or dish o’ peas.”
“Well, you must plant them first.”
“Plaint ’em? It won’t be no good, sir.”