“Nonsense! I didn’t mean the birch, I meant the broomsticks.”
“Oh, I see!” said David. “But nay, nay, sir, that wouldn’t do. You see, when a man’s monkey’s up he hits hard; and if you and me ketched Pete Warboys over in our garden, and hit as hard as we could, we might break him; and though I says to you it wouldn’t be a bit o’ consequence, that there old rampagin’ witch of a granny of his would come up here cursing every one, and making such filliloo that there’d be no bearing it.”
“Well, that wouldn’t harm anybody.”
“I dunno, sir; I dunno,” said David thoughtfully.
“Why, David, you don’t believe in witches and ill-wishing, and all that sort of stuff, do you?”
“Me, sir?” cried the gardener; “not likely. But it’s just as well to be the safe side o’ the hedge, you know, in case there might be something in it.”
Tom laughed, and David shook his head solemnly.
“Why, I believe you do believe in it all,” said Tom.
“Nay, sir, I don’t,” cried the old fellow indignantly; “and don’t you go saying such things.”
“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed Tom.