"Very well. Take charge. It's too late in the year to grow flowers or vegetables, but you can tidy things up a bit."
"A man who has his heart in the job, sir, can grow flowers at any time of the year. If I was to drop a line to the Nuttonby carrier to-night, I'd have a fair show of geraniums, calceolarias, lobelia, an' marguerite daisies in the front here by to-morrow evenin'."
Armathwaite was not one to check enthusiasm. Moreover, the notion of brightening the surroundings appealed to him.
"That would be sharp work," he said, eyeing the jungle.
Smith, with the suspiciousness of an old man eager to show that he was as good as some of the young ones, misunderstood that critical survey.
"Before Tom Bland brings the plants from the nursery I'll have a canny bit o' soil ready for 'em," he vowed.
"I'm sure of it," said Armathwaite, quickly alive to the aged gardener's repudiation of any doubt cast on his powers. "But surely you can be better employed than in mere digging. Are there laborers to be hired in the village?"
Smith swept the bare meadow-land with the appraising eyes of knowledge.
"Plenty of 'em, sir. The hay is in, an' they'll be slack enough now for another month."
"Very well. Send your order to Bland, including such implements as you may need. Hire three or four men, and get them busy. By the way, have you heard that Miss Meg is here?"