“Something wrong in the greenhouse! What d’ye mean, lad?”
“He says the plants are spoiled, and the grapes,” interrupted Mrs. Todhetley, to help me.
“Plants and grapes spoiled! You must be out of your senses, Johnny, to say such a thing. What has spoiled them?”
“It looks like some—blight,” I answered, pitching upon the word. “Everything’s dead and blackened.”
Downstairs I rushed for fear he should ask more. And down came the pater after me, hardly anything on, so to say; not shaved, and his nankeen coat flying behind him.
I let him go on to get the burst over. When I reached them, they were talking about the key. It was customary for the head-gardener to lock the greenhouse at night. For the past month or so there had been, as may be said, two head-gardeners, and the key had been left on the ledge at the back of the greenhouse, that whichever of them came on first in the morning might get in.
The Squire stormed at this—with that scene before his eyes he was ready to storm at everything. Pretty gardeners, they were! leaving the key where any tramp, hiding about the premises for a night’s lodging, might get into the greenhouse and steal what he chose! As good leave the key in the door, as hang it up outside it! The world had nothing but fools in it, as he believed.
Jenkins answered with deprecation. The key was not likely to be found by anybody but those that knew where to look for it. It always had a flower-pot turned down upon it; and so he had found it that morning.
“If all the tramps within ten miles got into the greenhouse, sir, they’d not do this,” affirmed Tod.