Part 18 (2/2)

”And you call yourselves young gentlemen!” grunted Samson. ”Why, you'd ha' been just as badly off if your rope hadn't slipped. Here, give us hold.”

Samson seized the rope, and they heard him grunt and pant and cease his struggle, and then begin to grunt and pant again for quite ten minutes, when, just as they rather maliciously hoped that he would prove as awkward as themselves, they heard the lanthorn bang against the rock, a shower of shale fell as it was kicked off, and Samson's voice came down--

”Line is a bit slithery,” he said; ”but I'm all right now.”

They could not see, but they in imagination felt that he had reached the first slope, up which he was climbing, and then felt when he pa.s.sed up the second, showers of shale and earth following every moment, till, all at once, there was a cessation of noise, and of the shower, and Samson's bluff voice exclaimed--

”Up a top! Now, then, lay hold, and I'll have you up to where you can climb.”

”Go on, Scar.”

”Go on, Fred.”

The boys spoke together, and, after a little argument, Scarlett seized the rope, felt himself hoisted up, and, once up at the slope, he soon reached daylight, Fred following in the same way, to stand in the suns.h.i.+ne, gazing at his companions, who, like himself, were covered with perspiration and dust.

”You look nice ones, you do,” said Samson, grinning; ”and all that there trouble for nothing.”

But Samson was a very ignorant man, who knew a great deal about gardening, but knew nothing whatever about the future, though in that instance his want of knowledge was shared by Fred and Scarlett, who, after resuming their jerkins, took, one the pole, the other the coil of neatly ringed rope, and trudged back to the Manor with Samson, who delivered quite a discourse upon waste of time; but he did not return to his digging, contenting himself with extracting his spade from the ground, wiping it carefully, and hanging it up in his tool-house, close to the lanthorn.

”Going home, Master Scarlett?” said Samson.

”Yes, directly.”

”Won't have a mug o' cider, I suppose?”

”No, thank ye, Samson.”

”Because I thought Master Fred was going to fetch some out, and you could have a drop too.”

”Hark at him, Scar! There never was such a fellow for cider.”

”Oh yes, there was; but I've yearned it anyhow to-day.”

”So you have, and I'll fetch you a mug,” said Fred, darting off.

”Ah, that's better,” grunted Samson. ”Never such a fellow for cider!

Why, my brother's a deal worse than I am, and you wouldn't ketch him leaving his work to take all the trouble I did to-day, Master Scarlett.

Hah! here he comes back. Thank ye, Master Fred, lad. Hah! what good cider. Puzzle your Nat to make such stuff as that.”

”He says ours is better,” said Scarlett.

”Let him, sir; but that don't make it better.”

”Bother the old cider! Who cares?” cried Fred. ”Look here, Samson, don't say a word to anybody about our having found that hole.”

”No, sir; not I.”

”Why did you tell him that!” said Scarlett, as they walked away.

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