Sappers and Miners | Page 3

of thick hair about his neck, stood upon hind-legs at the full extent of the chain, and tried hard to strangle himself with his collar.
Then there was a burst of frantic yelps and whines, a kind of dance was performed as the boy approached with the dog's breakfast, and then there was peace over the devouring of the bread, which was eaten in bits thrown at him from a couple of yards away, and caught without fail.
After this performance the fish was placed in a pan; and as the dog bent down to eat, Gwyn pulled his ears, thumped his back, sat astride it and talked to the animal.
"You're going to be shot at if you go into the garden again, Grip; so look out, old chap. Do you hear?"
The dog was too busy over the fish, but wagged his tail.
"I'm to keep you chained up more, but we'll have some games over the moor yet--rabbits!"
The fish was forgotten, and the dog threw up his head and barked.
"There, go on with your breakfast, stupid! I'm off."
"How-ow!" whined the dog, dismally, and he kept it up, straining at his chain till the boy was out of sight, when the animal stood with an ear cocked up and his head on one side, listening intently till the steps died out, before resuming his breakfast of fish.
Gwyn was off back to the house, where he fetched his basket from the larder and carried it into the hall.
"Here, father--mother--come and have a look!" he cried; and upon their joining him, he began to spread out his catch, so as to have an exhibition of the silvery bass--the brilliant, salmon-shaped fish whose sharp back fins proved to a certainty that they were a kind of sea perch.
They were duly examined and praised: and when they had been divided into presents for their neighbours in the little Cornish fishing port, the Colonel, who had, after long and arduous service in the East, hung up his sword to take to spade and trowel, went off to see to his nectarines, peaches, pears, grapes and figs in his well-walled garden facing the south, and running down to the rocky shores of the safe inlet of Ydoll Brea, his son Gwyn following to help--so it was called.
The boy, a sturdy, frank-looking lad, helped his father a great deal in the garden, but not after the ordinary working fashion. That fell to the lot of Ebenezer Gelch, a one-eyed Cornishman, who was strangely imbued with the belief that he was the finest gardener in the West of England, and held up his head very high in consequence. Gwyn helped his father, as he did that morning, by following him out into the sunny slope, and keeping close behind.
The Colonel stopped before a carefully-trained tree, where the great pears hung down from a trellis erected against the hot granite rock, and stood admiring them.
"Nearly ripe, father?" asked Gwyn.
"No, my boy, not nearly," said the Colonel, softly raising one in his hand. "They may hang more than a month yet. We shall beat the Jersey folk this year."
"Yes, father," said Gwyn, and he followed to where the Colonel stopped before a peach tree, and stooped to pick up a downy red-cheeked fellow which had fallen during the night.
"Not fully grown, Gwyn, but it's a very fine one," said the Colonel.
"Yes father--a beauty. Shall I take it in?"
"No, not good enough. Eat it, my boy."
Gwyn did not need any further telling, and the peach disappeared, the stone being sent flying into the sea.
A little farther on, a golden tawny Jefferson plum was taken from a tree, for the wasps had carved a little hole in the side, and this was handed to the boy and eaten. A nectarine which had begun to shrink came next; and from the hottest corner of the garden a good-tempered looking fig, which seemed to have opened a laughing mouth as if full, and rejoicing in its ripeness. After this a rosy apple or two and several Bon Chretien pears, richly yellow, were picked up and transferred to the boy's pocket, and the garden was made tidy once more, evidently to the owner's satisfaction. Certainly to that of his son, who was most diligent in disposing of the fruit in this way.
Then the Colonel sauntered into the little sloping vinery where the purple and amber grapes were hanging, and Gwyn thrust in his head; but as there were no berries to be eaten, and it was very hot, he drew back and went up the slope toward the wall at the top, carefully peeling one of the pears with a fishy pocket-knife.
He was in the act of throwing a long curl of peel over the wall when a sun-browned face appeared as if on purpose to receive it,