“Confound! Ugh!” ejaculated the knight; and then, seeing Sanders coming slowly back, he played Spartan, and preserved outward composure, though there was a volcano of wrath smouldering within.
He strutted off, with the gardener behind, fired a couple of shots at gardeners two and three, who were sweeping the lawn, and then entered into a general inspection of the garden.
“How—Er-rum!—how is it that bed is not in flower, Sanders?” “Done blooming,” said Sanders, gruffly.
“Done blooming, Sir Hampton!” exclaimed the knight, facing round.
“Done blooming, Sir Hampton,” said the gardener, slowly; and he looked as expressionless as a big sunflower.
“Take off that branch,” said the knight, pointing to an overhanging bough; and it was solemnly lopped off.
“Er-rum!” ejaculated the knight, when they had gone a little farther. “How is it that patch of lawn is brown?”
“Grubs,” said the gardener.
“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the knight, fiercely.
“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the corrected gardener.