OF CRIMINATIONS
"Zebedee," said the Major, staring down at his empty desk, "what's become of my manuscript and papers?"
"I' the orchard, sir."
"The orchard—why there?"
"Why sir, seeing the day s'fine, the sun s'warm and the air s'balmy I took 'em out into the arbour, your honour."
"And who the plague told you to?"
"Mrs. Agatha, sir, and seeing 'tis quiet there wi' none to disturb, d'ye see, I took same, hoping what wi' the sun so warm and the air so balmy and your History o' Fortification in ten vollums you might—capture a wink or so o' sleep, p'r'aps, you not having closed a optic all last night, your honour."
"Ha!" growled the Major and, limping to the open casement, scowled out upon the sunny garden.
"And you was ever fond o' the orchard, sir."
"Damn the orchard!"