Then there was Pollard.
Pollard was the gardener. He was not a gifted being like the curate. By no stretch of imagination could he be regarded as entertaining. He was a stocky, silent young man, whose conversation consisted mainly of "Yes, Mazter Robin"; "Noa, little gentleman"; or, "I don't 'old with it myself, young zur," when Robin solicited his opinions about the war and kindred subjects.
Yet there was something in his bearing that subtly conveyed to the lonely little boy the fact that in Pollard he had a friend, and a rather admiring friend at that, and Robin followed him about like a small dog.
Yes, Pollard was a comfort.
He spied him now wheeling a barrow loaded with what Pollard himself called "dong," with a spade resting on the top of the heap.
"Wait for me, Pollard—wait for me!" called the clear little voice. The man stopped, and when Robin caught him up, they went together to the flower-garden, where Pollard was preparing the ground for a hedge of sweet peas next year.
Here Robin was thrilled to perceive that Pollard started to dig a trench. He was a capital digger, throwing up great spadefuls of soil, and the trench was beautifully even.
"They'd like you to help them in Belgium," Robin exclaimed admiringly, "you're so strong—only you couldn't do it that way."
Pollard rested on his spade. "Well, there now, Mazter Robin," he exclaimed, "be you agoin' to teach Oi to dig at this time o' day?"
"Not standing up like that," Robin continued, as though he had not heard—"not to begin with. You'd get shot directly. Can you do it as well lying down?"