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Updated: June 3, 2025
The parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums after his wayward experiment with a potato-digging machine, which turned out a lamentable failure, and his premature departure confirmed our vague impression of his character. "He's awa noo," Drumsheugh summed up, after opinion had time to form; "an' there were waur fouk than Drums, but there's nae doot he wes a wee flichty."
"Oh, Uncle Jim, is it?" "Yes." "Den you must have off dem dare whiskers of yours, an when you get to Orleans you must grease dat face an make it look shiney." This was all said by Pompey in a manner which clearly showed that he knew what he was about. "How old is you?" asked Pompey of a tall, strong-looking man. "I was twenty-nine last potato-digging time," said the man. "What's your name?"
The potato-digging station-master had been gingered up into some activity, for the west-going train was waiting to let us pass, and from it had descended three men who were asking him questions. I supposed that they were the local police, who had been stirred up by Scotland Yard, and had traced me as far as this one-horse siding. Sitting well back in the shadow I watched them carefully.
We had the start of them, however, by half a mile or more; and, as our two gigs were far from slow coaches, we did not altogether despair of escaping. Still the odds were fearfully against us; and, even if we were not killed outright, potato-digging and water-drawing for the rest of our days was not a pleasant prospect for contemplation, independent of failing in the object we had in view.
We heard firing, and could hear commands given to soldiers. Soon it dawned on us that they were searching the wood for us. The hours dragged on. We were cramped and sore of feet, hungry, and nervous from lack of sleep, but managed to remain absolutely motionless. About three o'clock a five-year-old boy belonging to the potato-digging party, strolled up to the top of the hill.
I remember a meadow there, and yet again a potato-digging, where we picked our own potatoes for dinner and grew sun-burnt as the brown men and women who required so many cans of well-water to drink at their work. Where the hedge curved there was a little passage, through which the dyke-water flowed into the next field.
"One or two domestics did the housework, and helped the farm-hands in haying, harvest, and potato-digging; and over all presided Mrs. Sims, a tall, stout, and resolute widow, with a heavy hand and a shrewish temper. A specimen of one of their daily breakfast dialogues may be worthy of reproduction. "She. 'Good mornin, sir. 'Ope you're well this morning. "He. 'Yes quite well.
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