"Why as to that Zeb—er—Lard save me, I'm to ride with the Major to Sevenoaks, he'll be waiting! Here, help me on with this!" And laying by his foil, the Viscount caught up his coat.
"Three days, Master Tom, and wherefore three?" enquired the Sergeant as Viscount Merivale struggled into his tight-fitting garment.
"Take care, Zeb, 'tis a new creation."
"And seems much too small, sir!"
"Nay, 'twill go on in time, Zeb, in time. I shall acquire it by degrees. Ease me into it—gently, gently—so!"
"And wherefore three days, sir?" persisted the Sergeant, as the coat being "acquired" its wearer settled its graceful folds about his slender person.
"Why three is a lucky number they say, Zeb," and with a smiling nod the Viscount hasted serenely away.
"Three days!" muttered the Sergeant, looking after him. "Zounds—I wonder!" So saying, he put away the foils and taking a pair of shears set himself to trim one of the tall yew hedges, though more than once he paused to rub his chin and murmur: "Three days—I wonder?"
This remark he had just uttered for perhaps the twentieth time when, roused by a hurried, shambling step, he glanced up and saw Roger, one of the under-gardeners who, touching an eyebrow, glanced over right shoulder, glanced over left, and spoke:
"Sergeant I do ha' worked here i' the park an' grounds twenty-five year man an' boy, an' in all that length o' days I never knowed it to happen afore, an' now it 'ave happened all of a shakesome sweat I be, hares-foot or no—an' that's what!"