Noughts and Crosses | Page 3

limp that I had to laugh as I passed.
The man glanced up, set his forefinger between the pages of his book,
and turned on me a long sallow face and a pair of the most beautiful
brown eyes in the world.
"Little boy," he said, in a quick foreign way--"rosy little boy. You
laugh at my geese, eh?"
No doubt I stared at him like a ninny, for he went on--
"Little wide-mouthed Cupidon, how you gaze! Also, by the way, how
you smell!"
"It's my corduroys," said I.

"Then I discommend your corduroys. But I approve your laugh. Laugh
again--only at the right matter: laugh at this--"
And, opening his book again, he read a long passage as I walked beside
him; but I could make neither head nor tail of it.
"That is from the 'Sentimental Journey,' by Laurence Sterne, the most
beautiful of your English wits. Ah, he is more than French! Laugh at
it."
It was rather hard to laugh thus to order; but suddenly he set me the
example, showing two rows of very white teeth, and fetching from his
hollow chest a sound of mirth so incongruous with the whole aspect of
the man, that I began to grin too.
"That's right; but be louder. Make the sounds that you made just now--"
He broke off sharply, being seized with an ugly fit of coughing, that
forced him to halt and lean on his staff for a while. When he recovered
we walked on together after the geese, he talking all the way in
high-flown sentences that were Greek to me, and I stealing a look every
now and then at his olive face, and half inclined to take to my heels and
run.
We came at length to the ridge where the road dives suddenly into
Tregarrick. The town lies along a narrow vale, and looking down, we
saw flags waving along the street and much smoke curling from the
chimneys, and heard the church-bells, the big drum, and the confused
mutterings and hubbub of the fair. The sun--for the morning was still
fresh--did not yet pierce to the bottom of the valley, but fell on the
hillside opposite, where cottage-gardens in parallel strips climbed up
from the town to the moorland beyond.
"What is that?" asked the goose-driver, touching my arm and pointing
to a dazzling spot on the slope opposite.
"That's the sun on the windows of Gardener Tonken's glass-house."

"Eh?--does he live there?"
"He's dead, and the garden's 'to let;' you can just see the board from
here. But he didn't live there, of course. People don't live in
glass-houses; only plants."
"That's a pity, little boy, for their souls' sakes. It reminds me of a
story--by the way, do you know Latin? No? Well, listen to this:-- if I
can sell my geese to-day, perhaps I will hire that glass-house, and you
shall come there on half holidays, and learn Latin. Now run ahead and
spend your money."
I was glad to escape, and in the bustle of the fair quickly forgot my
friend. But late in the afternoon, as I had my eyes glued to a peep-show,
I heard a voice behind me cry "Little boy!" and turning, saw him again.
He was without his geese.
"I have sold them," he said, "for 5 pounds; and I have taken the
glass-house. The rent is only 3 pounds a year, and I shan't live longer,
so that leaves me money to buy books. I shall feed on the snails in the
garden, making soup of them, for there is a beautiful stove in the
glass-house. When is your next half-holiday?"
"On Saturday."
"Very well. I am going away to buy books; but I shall be back by
Saturday, and then you are to come and learn Latin."
It may have been fear or curiosity, certainly it was no desire for
learning, that took me to Gardener Tonken's glass-house next Saturday
afternoon. The goose-driver was there to welcome me.
"Ah, wide-mouth," he cried; "I knew you would be here. Come and see
my library."
He showed me a pile of dusty, tattered volumes, arranged on an old
flower-stand.

"See," said he, "no sorrowful books, only Aristophanes and Lucian,
Horace, Rabelais, Moliere, Voltaire's novels, 'Gil Blas,' 'Don Quixote,'
Fielding, a play or two of Shakespeare, a volume or so of Swift, Prior's
Poems, and Sterne--that divine Sterne! And a Latin Grammar and
Virgil for you, little boy. First, eat some snails."
But this I would not. So he pulled out two three-legged stools, and very
soon I was trying to fix my wandering wits and decline mensa.
After this I came on every half-holiday for nearly a year. Of course the
tenant of the glass-house was a nine days' wonder in the town.