A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more, laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.
“Slip int’ it, Tommy. Well, this is a game. It’s straange and fine though, after doin’ nowt for a week.”
Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of his love.
“Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha’ done this ’ere in ’bout an hour and a half,” said Harry, grinning; and then—crack!
“Look at that for a tool!” he cried, holding up the broken shovel, snapped in two at the handle.
“Try this one, Harry,” said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly; “I’ve got some hoeing to do.”
Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered without a sigh.
“Now, I ain’t agoing to beg, parson,” said Harry, after a couple of hours’ work, “but my forge wants coal, and a bite o’ bread and a bit o’ slip-coat cheese would be to raights.”
“Slip-coat cheese?” said the vicar.
“He means cream cheese,” said Tom, who had been working away without a word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.