“I say, how jolly grumpy it used to make Mr Wilton.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Chris. “A year ago he was always ready for a bit of fun, fishing, snaking, squirrel-hunting, or seeking honey. But there, no wonder; he felt like father, that it was all lose, lose, lose, and that it was unfair not to be at work.”
“And it took all the fun out of our games.”
“Yes, no more games now, Neddy. Father said last night when we were alone that we must bid good-bye to being boys with the place—leave all that here, and begin to think of being and acting like men.”
“Yes, and my father said something like that to me, Chris; and somehow now it has come to making the start I don’t feel as if I want to be a man yet. It was so jolly to be a boy here in the dear old place. Oh, bother the old gold! I wish that poor old chap hadn’t come here to die.”
“So do I,” said Chris, and his voice sounded very husky now as he gazed round him at the many familiar objects. “I say, look how my apple-tree has grown!”
“Yes, and my pear,” said Ned quickly. “It has beaten your old apple all to bits.”
“Well, of course it has,” said Chris roughly. “Pears do run up tall and straight and weak. Apples grow stout and strong and slow.”
“They’ve done well enough.”
“Yes; but then see what pains we took to water and manure them. Nothing else has done well.”