"And a poor boy at that," said Henry Merton. "Phil thinks so much of flowers too. I've seen him go down on his knees and fairly worship a geranium or verbena."
"Garden—much of a garden! One of my father's hotbeds is bigger than the whole of it."
"What of that? It was all he had, and he thought all the more of it," said Harry, whose father was as rich as Mr. Maberly, and had beautiful grounds and gardens.
"Well there, you needn't make such a fuss," said Horace, who began to be sorry he had said anything, when he saw what the other boys thought of him. "I'll pay the little beggar for it, only I don't want him to know I did it. Those people are so revengeful, he might set our barn on fire."
This was a little more than Phil could stand. He jumped up and went forward so as to meet the boys at the gate.
"Here's your knife, Horace," said he, holding out the knife and speaking quite steadily. "You dropped it in my garden, and I found it."
Horace looked blank for a minute, and then broke into a sneering laugh.
"Oh ho, Paddy! So you were listening, were you? Just like your sort of people. You needn't look so mad. Here's money enough to pay for your beggarly old garden ten times over."
Phil dropped the bill which Horace had thrust into his hand, into a puddle which last night's rain had left at the gate, and walked into the church without a word.
"Served you right, you snob," said John.