“Will you, Master Tom?”
“Of course I will.”
“But we can’t mend them there frame-lights. The wood’s gone too.”
“No, but I’ll ask uncle to buy some new ones; they were very old.”
“Well, if you come to that, sir, they was that touch-woody that if it hadn’t been for the thick paint I put on ’em every spring, till they had quite a houtside skin o’ white lead, they wouldn’t ha’ held together. Stop, that arn’t all: the tool-house door’s blowed right off. Natur’s very well in some things, but I never could see what was the good o’ so much wind blustering and rampaging about. I was very nigh gettin’ up and coming to see how things was, on’y the tiles and pots was a-flying, so that I thought I’d better stop in bed.”
“I wish you had come,” said Tom.
“Ay, that’s all very well, Master Tom; but s’pose one o’ they big ellums as come down on the green—four on ’em—had dropped atop o’ me, what would master ha’ done for a gardener? There’s nobody here as could ha’ kept our garden as it ought to be.”
“It was a terrible night, David.”
“Terrible arn’t the word for it, Master Tom. Why, do you know—Yah! You there again. Here, stop a minute.”
David ran to a piece of rock-work, picked up a great pebble, and trotted to the side of the garden, whence a piteous, long-drawn howl had just arisen—a dismal mournful cry, ending in a piercing whine, such as would be given by a half-starved tied-up dog left in an empty house.