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"Here's the place," said his father at last among the water
forget-me-nots. "But where the deuce are the larch-poles, Cloke?
I told you to have them down here ready."
"We'll get 'em down if f you say so," Cloke answered, with a
thrust of the underlip they both knew.
"But I did say so. What on earth have you brought that timber-tug
here for? We aren't building a railway bridge. Why, in America,
half-a-dozen two-by-four bits would be ample."
"I don't know nothin' about that," said Cloke.
"An' I've nothin' to say against larch--IF you want to make a
temp'ry job of it. I ain't 'ere to tell you what isn't so, sir;
an' you can't say I ever come creepin' up on you, or tryin' to
lead you further in than you set out--"
A year ago George would have danced with impatience. Now he
scraped a little mud off his old gaiters with his spud, and
waited.
"All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp'ry job of
it; and by the time the young master's married it'll have to be
done again.


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