Brownsmith's Boy Part 2

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 suns.h.i.+ne, and every here and there I could see the great scarlet berries s.h.i.+ning as if they had been varnished, and waiting to be picked.

"Ah, thief!" shouted my guide, as a blackbird flew out of the bed, uttering its loud call. "Why, boys, boys, you ought to have caught him."

This was to the cats, one of which answered by giving itself a rub down his leg, while he clapped his hand upon my shoulder.

"There you are, my hearty. It isn't so far for you to stoop as it would be for me. Go and pick 'em."

"Pick them?" I said, looking at him wonderingly.

"To be sure. Go ahead. I'll hold your flowers. Only take the ripe ones, and see here--do you know how to pick strawberries?"

I felt so amused at such a silly question that I looked up at him and laughed.

"Oh, you do?" he said.

"Why, anybody could pick strawberries," I replied.

"Really, now! Well, let's see. There's a big flat fellow, pick him."

I handed him the flowers, and stepping between two rows of plants, stooped down, and picked the great strawberry he pointed out.

"Oh, you call that picking, do you?" he said.

"Yes, sir. Don't you?"

"No: I call it tearing my plants to pieces. Why, look here, if my pickers were to go to work like that, I should only get half a crop and my plants would be spoiled."

I looked at him helplessly, and wished he would pick the strawberries himself.

"Look here," he said, stooping over a plant, and letting a great scarlet berry specked with golden seeds fall over into his hand. "Now see: finger nail and thumb nail; turn 'em into scissors; draw one against the other, and the stalk's through. That's the way to do it, and the rest of the bunch not hurt. Now then, your back's younger than mine. Go ahead."

I felt hot and uncomfortable, but I took the rhubarb leaf, stepped in amongst the clean straw, and, using my nails as he had bid me, found that the strawberries came off wonderfully well.

"Only the ripe ones, boy; leave the others. Pick away. Poor old Tommy then!"

I looked up to see if he was speaking to me, but he had let one of the cats run up to his shoulder, and he was stroking the soft lithe creature as it rubbed itself against his head.

"That's the way, boy," he cried, as I scissored off two or three berries in the way he had taught me. "I like to see a chap with brains. Come, pick away."

I did pick away, till I had about twenty in the soft green leaf, and then I stopped, knowing that in flowers and fruit I had twice as much as I should have obtained at the shop.

"Oh, come, get on," he cried contemptuously. "You're not half a fellow.

Don't stop. Does your back ache?"

"No, sir," I said; "but--"

"Oh, you wouldn't earn your salt as a picker," he cried. As he said this he came on to the bed, and, bending down, seemed to sweep a hand round the strawberry plant, gathering its leaves aside, and leaving the berries free to be snipped off by the right finger and thumb. He kept on bidding me pick away, but he sheared off three to my one, and at the end of a few minutes I was holding the rhubarb leaf against my breast to keep the fruit from falling over the side.

"There you are," he cried at last. "That do?"

"Oh, yes, sir," I said; "but--"

"That's enough," he cried sharply. "Here, hand over that sixpence.

Money's money, and you can't get on without it, youngster."

I gave him the coin, and he took it, span it up in the air, caught it, and after dragging out a small wash-leather bag he dropped it in, gave me a comical look as he twisted a string about the neck, tucked it in, and replaced the bag in his pocket.

"There you are," he cried. "Small profits and quick returns. No credit given. Toddle; and don't you come and bother me again. I'm a market grower, my young shaver, and can't trade your fas.h.i.+on."

"I did not know, sir," I said, trying to look and speak with dignity, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed so off-handedly by this man, just as if I had been asking him a favour.

"I'm very much obliged to you," I added, for I had glanced at the bunch of roses; and as I looked at the fresh sweet-scented beauties I thought of how delighted my poor mother would be, and I could not help feeling that old Brownsmith had been very generous.

Then making him rather an awkward bow, I stalked off, feeling very small, and was some distance back towards the gate, wondering whether I should meet "Shock," when from behind there came a loud "Hi!"

I paid no heed and went on, for it was not pleasant to be shouted at like that by a market grower, and my dignity was a good deal touched by the treatment I had received; but all at once there came from behind me such a roar that I was compelled to stop, and on turning round there was old Brownsmith trotting after me, with his cats skipping about in all directions to avoid being trodden on and to keep up.

He was very much more red in the face now, for the colour went all down below his cheeks and about his temples, and he was s.h.i.+ning very much.

"Why, I didn't know you with your cap on," he cried. "Take it off. No, you can't. I will."

To my great annoyance he s.n.a.t.c.hed off my cap.

"To be sure! I'm right," he said, and then he put my cap on again, uncomfortably wrong, and all back: for no one can put your cap on for you as you do it yourself. "You live over yonder at the white house with the lady who is ill?"

I nodded.

"The widow lady?"

"I live with mamma," I said shortly.

"Been very ill, hasn't she?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah! bad thing illness, I suppose. Never was ill, only when the wagon went over my leg."

"Yes, sir, she has been very bad."

I was fidgeting to go, but he took hold of one of the ends of my little check silk tie, and kept fiddling it about between his finger and thumb.

"What's the matter?"

"Dr Morrison told Mrs Beeton, our landlady, that it was decline, sir."