I turned round, and he was signalling to me with the whole of his
crooked arm.
"Come on," he shouted, and he thrust a hand and the greater part of his
arm into one of his big pockets, and pulled out one of those curved
buckhorn-handled knives, which he opened with his white teeth.
He did not look quite so grim now, as he said: "Come o' purpose, eh?"
"Yes," I said.
"Ah! well, I won't send you back without 'em, only I don't keep a shop."
I looked rather haughty and consequential, I believe, but the looks of
such a boy as I made no impression, and he began to cut here and there
moss, and maiden's blush, and cabbage roses--simple old-fashioned
flowers, for the great French growers had not filled England with their
beautiful children, and a gardener in these days would not have believed
in the possibility of a creamy Gloire de Dijon or that great
hook-thorned golden beauty Marechal Niel.
He cut and cut, long-stalked flowers with leaf and bud, and thrust them
into his left hand, his knife cutting and his hand grasping the flower
in one movement, while his eye selected the best blossom at a glance.
At last there were so many that I grew fidgety.
"I said sixpenn'orth, sir, flowers and strawberries," I ventured to
remark.
"Not deaf, my lad," he replied with a grim smile. "Here, let's get some
of these."
These were pinks and carnations, of which he cut a number, pushing one
of the cats aside with his foot so that it should not be in his way.
"Here you are!" he cried. "Mind the thorns. My roses have got plenty
to keep off pickers and stealers. Now, what next?"
"I did want some strawberries," I said, "but--"
"Where's your basket, my hearty?"
I replied that I had not brought one.
"You're a pretty fellow," he said. "I can't tie strawberries up in a
bunch. Why didn't you bring a basket? Oh, I see; you want to carry 'em
inside?"
"No," I said shortly, for he seemed now unpleasantly familiar, and the
garden was not half so agreeable as I had expected.
However he seemed to be quite good-tempered now, and giving me a nod and
a jerk of his head, which meant--"This way," he went down a path, cut a
great rhubarb leaf, and turned to me.
"Here, catch hold," he cried; "here's one of nature's own baskets. Now
let's see if there's any strawberries ripe."
I saw that he was noticing me a good deal as we went along another path
towards where the garden was more open, but I kept on in an independent
way, smelling the pinks from time to time, till we came to a great
square bed, all straw, with the great tufts of the dark green strawberry
plants standing out of it in rows. The leaves looked large, and
glistened in the sunshine, and every here and there I could see the
great scarlet berries shining as if they had been varnished, and waiting
to be picked.