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But the gardener, touched by the boy's pitiful expression, to say nothing of being tickled by Nick's calling him gentleman, spoke up: "Here, jack-sculler," said he; "I'll toss up wi' thee for it." He pulled a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. "Come, thou lookest a gamesome fellow cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in three flips what sayst?" "Done!" said the waterman.
"Oh, sir, do be brisk!" begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank. "More haste, worse speed," said the gardener; "only evil weeds grow fast!" and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. "Now, jack-sculler, hold thy breath; for up she goes again!" A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry.
"Pop her up!" Up went the groat. Nick held his breath. "Pile it is," said the gardener. "One for thee and up she goes again!" The groat twirled in the air and came down clink upon the thwart. "Aha!" cried the boatman, "'tis mine, or I'm a horse!" "Nay, jack-sculler," laughed the gardener; "cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, my pretty groat I never lose with this groat."
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