“Ah, it’s all very well for you two to grin,” he growled. “Think o’ what it’s going to be for me.”
“Serve you right for saying what you did,” cried Rifle, by way of consolation.
“Oh, Master Raffle, don’t you turn again me, too.—He’s too hard, ain’t he, Master ’Temus?”
“Not a bit,” cried the latter. “You grumble at everything. You’re a regular old Sourkrout, always grumbling.”
“Well! of all!” gasped the gardener, taking off his hat and wiping his brow.
“Look here,” cried Rifle; “father will be back here directly, so you had better go down on your knees and say you’re very sorry.”
“That I won’t,” said German, sturdily.
“And say you believe that the place is beautiful, and that you’ll make a better garden than we had in the country, and grow everything.”
“No; you won’t ketch me saying such a word as that, sir, for I don’t believe the place is any good at all. I say, see them chaps yonder?”
The boys looked in the direction pointed out by Sam with his whip, and Rifle exclaimed, “Blacks!”