asses knocked into a mash o' glass splinters and
stick. There's a limb off the baking pear-tree; lots o' branches teared
loose from the walls; a big bit snapped off the cedar, and that there
arby whitey blowed right sidewise. It's enough to make a gardener as
has any respect for himself break his 'art."

"Never mind, David; I'll come out and help you try to put things
straight."

"Will you, Master Tom?"

"Of course I will."

"But we can't mend them there frame-lights. The wood's gone too."

"No, but I'll ask uncle to buy some new ones; they were very old."

"Well, if you come to that, sir, they was that touch-woody that if it
hadn't been for the thick paint I put on 'em every spring, till they had
quite a houtside skin o' white lead, they wouldn't ha' held together.
Stop, that arn't all: the tool-house door's blowed right off. Natur's
very well in some things, but I never could see what was the good o' so
much wind blustering and rampaging about. I was very nigh gettin' up
and coming to see how things was, on'y the tiles and pots was a-flying,
so that I thought I'd better stop in bed."

"I wish you had come," said Tom.

"Ay, that's all very well, Master Tom; but s'pose one o' they big ellums
as come down on the green--four on 'em--had dropped atop o' me, what
would master ha' done for a gardener? There's nobody here as could ha'
kept our garden as it ought to be."

"It was a terrible night, David."

"Terrible arn't the word for it, Master Tom. Why, do you know--Yah!
You there again. Here, stop a minute."

David ran to a piece of rock-work, picked up a great pebble, and trotted
to the side of the garden, whence a piteous, long-drawn howl had just
arisen--a dismal mournful cry, ending in a piercing whine, such as would
be given by a half-starved tied-up dog left in an empty house.

David reached the hedge, reached over, hurled the stone, and sent after
it a burst of objurgations, ending with--

"Yah! G'long home with yer. Beast!"

"That's about settled him," he said as he came back, smiling very
widely.

"Strange dog, David?"

"Strange, sir? Not him. It's that ugly, hungry-looking brute o' Pete
Warboys'. That's four times he's been here this morning, chyiking and
yelping. You must have been giving him bones."

"I? No, I never fed him."

"Then cook must. We don't want him here. But I don't think he'll come
again."

"Did you hit him?"

"Hit him, sir? What with that there stone?