Phil shook his head.
“Well,––he put me in the charge of Mrs. Duff, and she set me to paring potatoes, washing the floors, scouring pots and pans, wringing clothes and all that sort of rot; till, one day, I just said to Duff that I’d come West to rawnch, not to skivvy.
“Of course, I’ll admit, I didn’t know an apple tree from a cauliflower, but, damme, I was game to learn, Phil. Don’t you think I did right to jolly-well remonstrate?”
“You certainly did!”
Thus encouraged, DeRue Hannington continued:
“He then put me to digging, and digging, and digging, till the cows came home, then to weeding, and weeding, and weeding, miles and miles of rows and rows of beastly carrots and things until I can’t look an honest carrot in the face or a potato in the eye without feeling faint.
“I really didn’t seem to be learning anything, but I stuck it gamely until three days ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Duff went off to visit a neighbour five miles up the Valley. They left me to look after the blooming squawking baby. That just got me real mad, so when it started in to bawl, I sat down and wrote a note saying I was through. I pinned it to the baby,––and, here I am.
“Don’t you think I did the right thing?”
“You bet!” answered Phil, striving hard to suppress his bubbling merriment.