He lifted one leg across the other, as if he were going to be shod by a blacksmith, showing that his soles would have made a very different impression upon the soft earth.
“Why, sir,” continued David with a smile, “I never leaves no footmarks. Natur’ meant a man’s hands to be used as rakes, or they would not ’a been this shape. I always gives the place a touch over where I’ve been.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, nodding. “I have seen you.”
“You ayve, sir, many times,” said David, bending down; “and these here couldn’t have been made by Master Tom, anyhow.”
“Lend me your knife, David,” said Uncle Richard.
“Knife, sir? Oh, I’ll soon smooth them marks out.”
“Stop!” cried Uncle Richard, and only just in time, for David’s finger-rake was within an inch. “We may want to compare those with somebody’s boots.”
“Why o’ course, sir,” said the gardener, handing his knife already opened; when, placing one foot close against the bricks, Uncle Richard leaned across the bed, inserted the blade of the knife beside the iron casement frame, and with it lifted the fastening with the greatest ease.
David gave his leg a heavy slap.
“That was some ’un artful, sir, and he got in.”