“Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom, staring.
“Labor hatory, sir! why don’t you say windmill?”
“Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one,” said Tom, rather stiffly.
“Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can’t make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill.”
“Well, we won’t argue,” said Tom. “Come along.”
He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom’s great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.
“Come along, David,” said Tom. “This is it.”
The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.
“You can’t manage one end o’ that, Master Tom,” he said in a hoarse whisper.