but Mr. George.
“I was born in the country, Phil.”
“Was you indeed, commander?”
“Yes. And bred there.”
Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still staring at him.
“There’s not a bird’s note that I don’t know,” says Mr. George. “Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn’t name. Not many a tree that I couldn’t climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real country boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.”
“She must have been a fine old lady, guv’ner,” Phil observes.
“Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago,” says Mr. George. “But I’ll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders.”
“Did she die at ninety, guv’ner?” inquires Phil.
“No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!” says the trooper. “What set me on about country boys, and runaways, and good-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes upon the country—marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?”
Phil shakes his head.
“Do you want to see it?”
“N-no, I don’t know as I do, particular,” says Phil.
“The town’s enough for you, eh?”