“Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten years at least; why, you must be older than she by some years, Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man.”
Simon went on with his potting without replying except by a carefully measured grunt, sufficient to show that he had heard the remark, and was not much impressed by it.
Tom saw that he must change his attack; so, after watching Simon for a minute, he began again.
“I wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much stronger than the young ones in constitution. Now, I don't believe there are three young men in Englebourn who would have got over that fall you had at Farmer Groves' so quick as you have; most young men would have been crippled for life by it.”
“Zo 'em would, the young wosbirds. I dwont make no account on 'em,” said Simon.
“And you don't feel any the worse for it, Simon?”
“Narra mossel,” replied Simon; but presently he seemed to recollect something, and added, “I wun't saay but what I feels it at times when I've got to stoop about much.”
“Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Simon. Then you oughtn't to have so much stooping to do; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for you, I should think, and just giving an eye to everything about the place. Anybody could do the digging and setting out cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it.”—Tom had now found the old man's weak point.
“Ees, sir, and so I tells miss,” he said, “but wi' nothin' but a bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame, 'tis all as a man can do to keep a few plants alive droo' the winter.”
“Of course,” said Tom, looking round at the very respectable greenhouse which Simon had contemptuously likened to a cucumber-frame, “you ought to have at least another house as big as this for forcing.”