But they didn’t seem to realise this at the Vicarage. For when Robin essayed to do it in his own garden—a nice large plot at the far end of the kitchen garden that grandfather had given him for his very own—he naturally got what nurse called "all over mould," and she was far from pleased, the less so in that Jean, coming with nurse to find him, immediately flung herself face downwards in the adjacent carrot-bed in imitation of her brother. Jean was pretty, and every one fell in love with her at first sight; but Robin was what nurse called a "very or’nary child," and visiting strangers showed no inclination to make a fuss of him. Grandfather was a very old gentleman, and Aunt Monica was always busy with parish work. Robin had heard his father say that she was "as good as three curates" to grandfather. Therefore did he find himself wishing that she had been, less capable, for, he reasoned, if Aunt Monica was equal to three curates now, and a visiting curate whom Robin liked exceedingly was still necessary—had she been rather less efficient, two visiting curates might have been required. Or, better still, the present one might have been permanent. And this, from Robin’s point of view, was most desirable. The visiting curate came every Sunday to intone the service, read the lessons, help in the Sunday-school, and take the children’s service in the afternoon, and he always lunched at the Vicarage. He was tall, with a cheerful red face and broad shoulders, which made a most comfortable seat for little boys. Moreover, he was a most accomplished person. He could waggle his ears without moving his head, and move his hair up and down without disarranging a muscle of his face. He could shut one eye—"shut flat," Robin called it, "no wrinkles"—and stare at you with the other, and he could wink each eye in succession, in a fashion that conveyed infinite possibilities of merriment. And all these things he contrived to do at the solemn Sunday luncheon when neither grandfather nor Aunt Monica happened to be looking. Then there was Pollard. Pollard was the gardener. He was not a gifted being like the curate. By no stretch of imagination could he be regarded as entertaining. He was a stocky, silent young man, whose conversation consisted mainly of "Yes, Mazter Robin"; "Noa, little gentleman"; or, "I don’t ’old with it myself, young zur," when Robin solicited his opinions about the war and kindred subjects. Yet there was something in his bearing that subtly conveyed to the lonely little boy the fact that in Pollard he had a friend, and a rather admiring friend at that, and Robin followed him about like a small dog. Yes, Pollard was a comfort. He spied him now wheeling a barrow loaded with what Pollard himself called "dong," with a spade resting on the top of the heap.