“Now, Malcomson,” said he, “as you have found an assistant, I hope you will soon bring my garden into decent trim. What kind of a chap is he, and how did you come by him?”
“Saul, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “he's a divilish clever chiel, and vara weel acquent wi' our noble profession.”
“Confound yourself and your noble profession! I think every Scotch gardener of you believes himself a gentleman, simply because he can nail a few stripes of old blanket against a wall. How did you come by this fellow, I say?”
“Ou, just through Lanigan, the cook, your honor.”
“Did Lanigan know him?”
“Hout, no, your honor—it was an act o' charity like.”
“Ay, ay, Lanigan's a kind-hearted old fool, and that's just like him; but, in the meantime, let me see this chap.”
“There he is, your honor, trimming, and taking care of that bed of 'love-lies-bleeding.'”
“Ay, ay; I dare say my daughter set him to that task.”
“Na, na, sir. The young leddy hasna seen him yet, nor hasna been in the gerden for the last week.”