66 A GARDEN DIARY 
guns steadily. It was the same last Monday, 
when I saw him for the first time after our two 
most recent misfortunes, that of the Modder and 
the Tugela. 
‘‘This is bad news, Cuttle,” I said, as we met 
outside the greenhouse. 
“Well ma’am, they do try to make it out to be 
baddish, but I wouldn’t believe it, if I was you.” 
‘But it is in all the papers, Cuttle.” 
“Very likely it is ma’am, but what of that? 
I don’t hold with none of those papers. They 
must be a-stuffing themselves out with some- 
thing.” 
“But I’m afraid the generals admit it them- 
selves.” 
“Excuse me ma’am, but that’s just where 
you're making a great mistake. We don’t know 
nothing about what the generals admit. All 
we know is that the papers say they admit it, 
which is a very different story. Mark my words, 
you'll find that it'll turn out to be some of their 
muddlings. Just you mark my words for it, 
that’s how it is.” 
I said meekly “I hope so, Cuttle,” and walked 
away, for really I had not the heart to try and 
shake his incredulity. Not that I imagine I 
could have done so had I tried. That good, 
homespun garment of British pride in which 
he had wrapped himself was proof against 
any assaults that I could have brought to bear 
