ere you thinking, then?" said Fred, anxiously.

"Well, sir, to speak the plain, downright, honest truth, as a Coombeland
man should, whether he be a soldier or a gardener--"

"Yes, yes. Go on. You talk too much, Samson," said Fred, pettishly,
for he was faint and sore.

"Well, sir, suppose I do. But I aren't neglecting anything, and there's
nothing else to do. Seems quite a rest to hear one's self speak."

"Then speak out, and say what you were thinking."

"I was thinking, sir, that I wish I was a horse just now."

"A horse? Why?"

"So as I could have a good fill of water, and keep on taking a bite of
sweet fresh green grass."

"Why, Samson!"

"Ah, you don't know, Master Fred. I'm that hungry, it wouldn't be safe
to trust me anywhere near meat; and not so much as a turnip anywhere,
nor a chance to catch a few trout. I wish I could tickle a few; I'd eat
'em raw."

"I'm sorry, Samson, and I haven't a scrap of food with me."

"No, sir, nor nobody else. You see, we were all out for exercise, and
not on the march, with our wallets full. And that aren't the worst of
it. Master Fred, I could lie down and cry."

"Because you are so hungry?"

"No, sir; but when I think of what we've left behind at the Hall.
Ducks, sir, and chickens; and there was hams. Oh!" groaned Samson,
laying his hand just below his heart, "those hams!"

Fred was weak, tired, faint, and low-spirited, but the doleful aspect of
his henchman was so comic that he burst into a fit of laughter.

"Well, Master Fred," said the ex-gardener, letting the reins rest on the
horse's neck, as he involuntarily tightened his belt, "I did think
better of you than to s'pose you'd laugh at other folk's troubles. Then
there was the cider, too. It wasn't so good as our cider at the Manor,
sir, for they hadn't got the apples at the Hall to give it the flavour,
spite of old Nat's bragging and boasting; but still, it wasn't so very
bad for a thirsty man, though I will say it was too sharp, and some I
tasted yesterday told tales."

"What of, Samson?"

"My lazy, good-for-nothing brother, sir," said Samson, triumphantly.

"Told tales of your brother--of Nat?"

"Yes, sir. There was a twang in that cider that said quite aloud,
`Dirty barrel,' and that he hadn't taken the trouble to properly wash it
out before it was used; but all the same, though it was half spoiled by
his neglect, I'd give anything for a mugful of it now, and a good big
home-made br