Brownsmiths Boy | Page 6

a sigh as I saw the figure of old Brownsmith coming towards me, looking much more stern and sharp than he did at a distance, and with his side pockets bulging enormously.
"Hallo, young shaver! what's your business?" he said, in a quick authoritative way, as we drew near to each other.
I turned a little red, for it sounded insulting for a market gardener to speak to me like that, for I never forgot that my father had been a captain in an Indian regiment, and was killed fighting in the Sikh war.
I did not answer, but drew myself up a little, before saying rather consequentially:
"Sixpenn'orth of flowers and strawberries--good ones."
"Oh, get out!" he said gruffly, and he half turned away. "We've no time for picking sixpenn'orths, boy. Run up into the road to the greengrocer's shop."
My face grew scarlet, and the beautiful garden seemed as if it was under a cloud instead of the full blaze of sunshine, while I turned upon my heel and was walking straight back.
"Here!"
I walked on.
"Hi, boy!" shouted old Brownsmith.
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.
"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