‘Why, Master Lucian,’ he said, ‘I don’t know as I ever did hear that language—can’t say as I ever did, anyhow.’
‘Listen, then,’ said Lucian. He treated Boggles to a string of expletives, delivered with native force and energy, making use of his eyes and teeth until the man began to feel frightened.
‘Lord sakes, Master Lucian!’ he said, ‘one ’ud think you was going to murder somebody—you look that fierce. It’s a queer sort o’ language that, sir—I never heard nowt like it. It flays a body.’
‘It is the most delightful language in the world when you want to swear,’ said Lucian. ‘It....’
‘Nonsense! It isn’t a patch on German. You wait till I get over the hedge and I’ll show you,’ cried a ringing and very authoritative voice. ‘I can reel off twice as much as that.’
Lucian turned round with an instinctive feeling that a critical moment was at hand. He caught sight of something feminine behind the hedgerow; the next instant a remarkably nimble girl came over a half-made gap. The turnip-hoeing man uttered an exclamation which had much joy in it.
‘Lord sakes if it isn’t Miss Millie!’ he said, touching his cap. ‘Glad to see ’ee once again, missie. They did tell me you was coming from them furrineerin’ countries, and there you be, growed quite up, as one might say.’
‘Not quite, but nearly, Boggles,’ answered Miss Chilverstone. ‘How’s your rheumatics, as one might call ’em? They were pretty bad when I went away, I remember.’
‘They’re always bad i’ th’ winter, miss,’ said Boggles, leaning on his hoe and evincing a decided desire to talk, ‘and a deal better in summer, allus providing the Lord don’t send no rain. Fine, dry weather, miss, is what I want—the rain ain’t no good to me.’
‘A little drop wouldn’t hurt the turnips, anyway,’ said Miss Chilverstone, looking about her with a knowing air. ‘Seem pretty well dried up, don’t they?’ She looked at Lucian. Their eyes met: the boy stared and blushed; the girl stared and laughed.