Sam attacked the ham and eggs directly, and made a very hearty meal, throwing a word or two now and then at his cousin, and asking a few questions, but in an offhand, assumed, man-about-town style, and without so much as glancing at Tom, who sat watching him till he had finished his breakfast, when he rose, cleared his voice, rang the bell, brushed a few crumbs from his clothes, and took out a cigarette case.
“There!” he said; “I’ll join them down the garden now. Which is the way?”
“I’ll take you,” said Tom; and just as Mrs Fidler entered, followed by the maid to clear away, Sam struck a wax-match, lit his cigarette, and walked out into the little hall and out into the porch, followed by Tom.
“Not a bad part of the country,” said Sam condescendingly; “but who does uncle find to talk to? Precious few decent houses.”
“There are plenty,” said Tom; “but they are a good way off. There’s uncle at the bottom of the field.”
“So I see,” said Sam. “I have eyes in my head. Humph! flowers. Halloo! raspberries!”
He stepped off the green path they were on to where several rows of neatly-tied-up raspberry canes crossed the garden, and began to pull the ruddy thimbles off the tiny white cones upon which they grew; while David, who was on the other side busy removing young pear-tree shoots from the wall, stared at him aghast.
“Who’s that fellow?” said Sam, as he took a whiff, then a raspberry, alternately.
“Our gardener.”
“Our, eh? Well, tell him to go on with his work. What’s he staring at?”