"Brownsmith's Boy" (continued 3)

“Yes, sir,” I cried hastily. “I’m very sorry, sir. I did not know that—”

“It was so heavy, Grant. Leverage, my boy. A strong man can hardly hold a ladder if he gets it off the balance.”

“Will it cost much to—”

“It was an old ladder, Grant, and I’m not sorry it is broken; for there was a bad crack there, I see, covered over by the paint. We might have had a nasty accident. It will do now for the low trees. Look here.”

He led me into the shed where the ladders hung, and showed me the broken ladder, neatly sawn off at the top, and thinned down a little, and trimmed off with a spokeshave, while a pot of lead-coloured paint and a brush stood by with which the old gentleman had been going over the freshly-cut wood.

“My job,” he said quietly. “Dry by to-morrow. You were quite right to tell me.”

Then there was a pause.

“How many apples does that make you’ve had to-day?” he said, suddenly.

“Apples, sir? Oh! that was the first.”

“Humph!” he ejaculated, looking at me sharply. “And so you’ve been having a set-to with Shock, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” I said in an aggrieved tone; “he—”

“Don’t tell tales out of school, Grant,” he said. “You’ve had your fight, and have come off better than I expected. Don’t let’s have any more of it, if you can help it. There, have a wash; make haste. Dinner’s waiting.”

The relief I felt was something tremendous, and though five minutes or so before I had not wanted any dinner, I had no sooner had a good wash in the tin bowl with the clean cold water from the pump, and a good rub with the round towel behind the kitchen door, than I felt outrageously hungry; and it was quite a happy, flushed face, with a strapped-up wound on the forehead and a rather swollen and cut lip, that looked out at me from the little square shaving glass on the wall.

That morning I had been despondently thinking that I was making no end of enemies in my new home. That afternoon I began to find that things were not so very bad after all. Shock was sulky, and seemed to delight in showing me the roots of his hair in the nape of his neck, always turning his back; but he did not throw any more apples and he played no more pranks, but went on steadily picking.

I did the same, making no further advances to him, though, as I recalled how I hammered his body and head, and how he must have been pricked by falling into the gooseberry bush, I felt sorry, and if he had offered to shake hands I should have forgotten how grubby his always were, and held out mine at once.

As the afternoon wore on we filled our baskets, and more had to be fetched. Then, later on, I wanted my ladder moved to another tree, and came down and called Ike, but he was not there, so I asked one of the other men, who came and did it for me, and then moved Shock’s.

I was just mounting again when Ike came up, taking long strides and scowling angrily.

“S’pose you couldn’t ha’ waited a moment, could you?” he growled. “I didn’t move the ladder just as you wanted, I suppose. You’re precious partickler, you are. Now, look here, my fine gentleman, next time you want a ladder moved you may move it yourself.”

“But I did call you, Ike,” I said; “and you weren’t there.”

“I hadn’t gone to get another two hundred o’ plarnts, I suppose, and was comin’ back as fast as I could, I s’pose. No, o’ course not. I ought to ha’ been clost to your elber, ready when you called. Never mind; next time you wants the ladder moved get some one else, for I sha’n’t do it;” and he strode away.

Half an hour later he was back to see if I wanted it moved, and waited till I had finished gathering a few more apples, when, smiling quite good-humouredly, he shifted the ladder into a good place.

“There,” he said, “you’ll get a basketful up there.

“Shock, shall I shift yours ’fore I go? That’s your sort. Well, you two chaps have picked a lot.”

I soon grew quite at home at Old Brownsmith’s, and found him very kind. Ike, too, in his rough way, quite took to me—at least if anything had to be done he was offended if I asked another of the men. I worked hard at the fruit-picking, and kept account when Ike laid straw or fern over the tops of the bushel and half-bushel baskets, and placed sticks across, lattice fashion, to keep the apples and pears in. Then of a night I used to transfer the writing on the slate to a book, and tell Old Brownsmith what I had put down, reading the items over and summing up the quantities and the amounts they fetched when the salesmen’s accounts came from Covent Garden.

The men and women about the place—all very quiet, thoughtful people—generally had a smile for me when I said good-morning, and I went on capitally, my old troubles being distant and the memories less painful day by day.

But somehow I never got on with Shock. I didn’t want to make a companion of him, but I did not want him to be an enemy, and that he always seemed to be.

He never threw lumps of soil or apples or potatoes at me now; but he would often make-believe to be about to hurl something, and if he could not get away because of his work he always turned his back.

“He doesn’t like me, Ike,” I said to the big gardener one day.

“No, he don’t, that’s sartain,” said Ike. “He’s jealous of you, like, because the ganger makes so much of you.”

“Mr Brownsmith would make as much of him if he would be smart and clean, and act like other boys,” I said.

“Yes, but that’s just what he won’t do, won’t Shock. You see, young ’un, he’s a ’riginal—a reg’lar ’riginal, and you can’t alter him. Ain’t tried to lick you again, has he?”

“Oh, no!” I said; “and he does not throw at me.”

“Don’t shy at you now! Well, I wonder at that,” said Ike. “He’s a wunner at shying. He can hit anything with a stone. I’ve seen him knock over a bird afore now, and when he gets off in the fields of an evening I’ve often knowed him bring back a rabbit.”

“What does he do with it?”

“Do with it! Come, there’s a good ’un. Cook it down in the shed, and eat it. He’d eat a’most anything. But don’t you mind him. It don’t matter whether he’s pleased or whether he ain’t. If he’s too hard on you, hit him again, and don’t be afraid.”

In fact the more I saw of Shock, the more distant he grew; and though I tried to make friends with him by putting slices of bread and butter and bits of cold pudding in the shed down the garden that he used to like to make his home at meal-time and of an evening, he used to eat them, and we were as bad friends as ever.

One morning, when there was rather a bigger fire than usual down in the old tool-shed, I walked to the door, and found Shock on his knees apparently making a pudding of soft clay, which he was kneading and beating about on the end of the hearthstone.

I looked round for the twig, for I felt sure that he was going to use the clay for pellets to sling at me, but there was no stick visible.

As I came to the doorway he just glanced over his shoulder; and then, seeing who it was, he shuffled round a little more and went on.

“What are you doing, Shock?” I asked.

He made no reply, but rapidly pinched off pieces of the clay and roughly formed them into the head, body, legs, and arms of a human being, which he set up against the wall, and then with a hoarse laugh knocked into a shapeless mass with one punch of his clay-coated fist.

“He meant that for me,” I said to myself; and I was going to turn away when I caught sight of something lying in the shadow beneath the little old four-paned window.

It was something I had never seen before except in pictures; and I was so interested that I stepped in and was about to pick up the object, but Shock snatched it away.

“Where did you get it?” I said eagerly.

He did not answer for a few moments, and then said gruffly, “Fields.”

“It’s a hedgehog, isn’t it?” I said. “Here, let me look.” He slowly laid the little prickly animal down on the earthen floor and pushed it towards me—a concession of civility that was wonderful for Shock; and I eagerly examined the curious little creature, pricking my fingers a good deal in the efforts to get a good look at the little black-faced animal with its pointed snout.

“What are you going to do with it?” I said.

Shock looked up at me in a curious half-cunning way, as he beat out his clay into a broad sheet; and then, as if about to make a pudding, he made the hedgehog into a long ball, laid it on the clay, and covered it up, rolling it over and over till there was nothing visible but a clay ball.

“What a baby you are, Shock, playing at making mud puddings!” I said.

He did not reply, only smiled in a half-pitying way, took an old broomstick that he used for a poker, and scraping the ashes of the fire aside rolled the clay pig-pudding into the middle of the fire, and then covered it over with the burning ashes, and piled on some bits of wood and dry cabbage-stumps, making up a good fire, which he set himself to watch.

It was a wet day, and there was nothing particular to do in the garden; so I stood looking at Shock’s cookery for a time, and then grew tired and was coming away when for a wonder he spoke.

“Be done soon,” he said.

Just then I heard my name called, and running through the rain I found that Old Brownsmith wanted me for a while about some entries that he could not find in the book, and which he thought had not been made.

I was able, however, to show him that the entries had been made; and as soon as I was at liberty I ran down the garden again to see how the cookery was going on.

As I reached the door the little shed was all of a glow, for Shock was raking the fire aside, but, apparently not satisfied, he raked it all back again, and for the next half hour he amused himself piling up scraps of wood and refuse to make the fire burn, ending at last by raking all away, leaving the lump of clay baked hard and red.

I had been standing by the door watching him all the time; and now he just turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder as he rose and took a little old battered tin plate from where it stuck beneath the rough thatch, giving it a rub on the tail of his jacket.

“Like hedgehog?” he said grimly.

“No,” I cried with a look of disgust.

“You ain’t tasted it,” he said, growing wonderfully conversational as he took a hand-bill from a nail where it hung.

Then, kneeling down before the fire, he gave the hard clay ball a sharp blow with the hand-bill, making it crack right across and fall open, showing the little animal steaming hot and evidently done, the bristly skin adhering to the clay shell that had just been broken, so that there was no difficulty in turning it out upon the tin plate, the shell in two halves being cast upon the fire, where the interior began to burn.

It seemed very horrible!

It seemed very nice!

I thought in opposite directions in the following moments, and all the time my nose was being assailed by a very savoury odour, for the cookery smelt very good.

“You won’t have none—will you?” said Shock, without looking at me.

“No,” I said shortly; “it isn’t good to eat. You might as well eat rats.”

“I like rats,” he replied, coolly taking out his knife from one pocket, a piece of bread from the other; and to my horror he rapidly ate up the hedgehog, throwing the bones on the fire as he picked them, and ending by rubbing the tin plate over with a bit of old gardener’s apron which he took from the wall.

“Well,” I said sarcastically, “was it nice?”

“Bewfle!” he said, giving his lips a smack and then sighing.

“Did you say you eat rats?” I continued.

“Yes.”

“And mice too?”

“No; there ain’t nuffin’ on ’em—they’re all bones.”

“Do you eat anything else?”

“Snails.”

“Yes, I’ve seen you eat the nasty slimy things.”

“They ain’t nasty slimy things; they’re good.”

“Do you eat anything else?”

“Birds.”

“What?” I said.

“Birds—blackbirds, and thrushes, and sparrers, and starlings. Ketches ’em in traps like I do the rats.”

“But do you really eat rats?”

“Yes—them as comes after the apples in the loft and after the corn. They are good.”

“But don’t you get enough to eat at home?” I asked him.

“Home!—what, here?”

“No, I mean your home.”

“What, where I sleeps? Sometimes.”

“But you’re not obliged to eat these things. Does Mr Brownsmith know?”

“Oh! yes, he knows. I like ’em. I eat frogs once. Ain’t fish good? I ketch ’em in the medders.”

“Where you saved me when I was drowning?” I said hastily.

Shock turned his face away from me and knelt there, throwing scraps of wood, cinder, and dirt into the fire, with his head bent down; and though I tried in all kinds of ways to get him to speak again, not a single word would he say.

I gave him up as a bad job at last and left him.

That night, just before going to bed, Old Brownsmith sent me out to one of the packing-sheds to fetch the slate, which had been forgotten. It was dark and starlight, for the wind had risen and the rain had been swept away.

I found the slate after fumbling a little about the bench, and was on my way back to the door of the long packing-shed when I heard a curious rustling in the loft overhead, followed by a thump on the board as if something had fallen, and then a heavy breathing could be heard—a regular heavy breathing that was almost a snore.

For a few moments I stood listening, and then, feeling very uncomfortable, I stole out, ran into the house, and stood before Old Brownsmith with the slate.

“Anything the matter?” he said.

“There’s someone up in the loft over the packing-shed—asleep,” I said hoarsely.

“In the loft!” he said quickly. “Oh! it is only Shock. He often sleeps there. You’ll find his nest in amongst the Russia mats.”

Surely enough, when I had the curiosity next morning to go up the ladder and look in the loft, there was Shock’s nest deep down amongst the mats that were used to cover the frames in the frosty spring, and some of these were evidently used to cover him up.

I came down, thinking that if I were Old Brownsmith I should make Master Shock go to his lodging and sleep of a night, and try whether I could not make him live like a Christian, and not go about feeding on snails and hedgehogs and other odds and ends that he picked up in the fields.

Chapter Twelve.

An Awkward Predicament.

For the next fortnight we were all very busy picking and packing fruit, and Ike was off every night about eleven or twelve with his load, coming back after market in the morning, and only doing a little work in the garden of an afternoon, and seeing to the packing ready for a fresh start in the night.

The weather was glorious, and the pears came on so fast that Shock and I were always picking so that they might not be too ripe.

It was a delightful time, for the novelty having gone off I was able to do my work with ease. I did not try to move the ladder any more, so I had no accident of that kind; and though I slipped once or twice, I was able to save myself, and began to feel quite at home up in the trees.

Every now and then if Shock was anywhere near he played some monkey trick or another. His idea evidently was to frighten me by seeming to fall or by hanging by hand or leg. But he never succeeded now, for I knew him too well; and though I admired his daring at times, when he threw himself backwards on the ladder and slid down head foremost clinging with his legs, I did not run to his help.

In spite of the conversation I had had with him in the shed, we were no better friends next time we met, or rather when we nearly met, for whenever he saw me coming he turned his back and went off in another direction.

As I said, a fortnight had passed, and the fruit-picking was at its height as far as pears and apples went, when one night, after a very hot day, when the cart was waiting in the yard, loaded up high with bushel and half-bushel baskets, and the horse was enjoying his corn, and rattling his chain by the manger, I left Old Brownsmith smoking his pipe and reading a seed-list, and strolled out into the garden.

It was a starlight night, and very cool and pleasant, as I went down one of the paths and then back along another, trying to make out the blossoms of the nasturtiums that grew so thickly along the borders just where I was.

The air smelt so sweet and fresh that it seemed to do me good, but I was thinking that I must be getting back into the house and up to my bed, when the fancy took me that I should like to go down the path as far as Mrs Beeton’s house, and look at the window where I used to sit when Shock pelted me with clay.

The path was made with ashes, so that my footsteps were very quiet, and as I walked in the shadow of a large row of pear-trees I was almost invisible. In fact I could hardly see my own hand.

All at once I stopped short, for I heard a peculiar scratching noise and a whispering, and, though I could hardly distinguish anything, I was perfectly sure that somebody had climbed to the top of the wall, and was sitting there with a leg over our side, for I heard it rustling amongst the plum boughs.

“It’s all right,” was whispered; and then there was more scuffling, and it seemed to me that some one else had climbed up.

Then another and another, and then they seemed to pull up another one, so that I believed there were five people on the wall.

Then came some whispering, and I felt sure that they were boys, for one said:

“Now, then, all together!” in a boyish voice, when there was a lot of rustling and scratching, and I could hear the plum-tree branches trained to the wall torn down, one breaking right off, as the intruders dropped over into our garden.

For the moment I was puzzled. Then I knew what it meant, and a flush of angry indignation came into my cheeks.

“Boys after our pears!” I said to myself as my fists clenched. For I had become so thoroughly at home at Old Brownsmith’s that everything seemed to belong to me, and I felt it was my duty to defend it.

I listened to make sure, and heard a lot of whispering going on as the marauders crossed the path I was on, rustled by amongst the gooseberry bushes, and went farther into the garden.

“They’re after the Marie Louise pears,” I thought; and I was about to run and shout at them, for I knew that would startle them away; but on second thoughts I felt as if I should like to catch some of them, and turning, I ran softly back up the path, meaning to tell Mr Brownsmith.

But before I had reached the end of the path another idea had occurred to me. Old Brownsmith would not be able to catch one of the boys, but Shock would if he was up in the loft, and in the hope that he was sleeping there I ran to the foot of the steps, scrambled up, and pushing back the door, which was only secured with a big wooden latch, I crept in as cautiously as I could.

“Shock!” I whispered. “Shock! Are you here?”

I listened, but there was not a sound.

“Shock!” I whispered again. “Shock!”

“If ver don’t go I’ll heave the hay-fork at yer,” came in a low angry voice.

“No, no: don’t,” I said. “I want you. Come on, and bring a big stick: there’s some boys stealing the pears.”

There was a rustle and a scramble, and Shock was by my side, more full of life and excitement than I had ever noticed him before.

“Pears?” he whispered hoarsely; “arter the pears? Where? Where are they?”

He kept on the move, making for the door and coming back, and behaving altogether like a dog full of expectation of a rush after some wild creature in a hunt.

“Be quiet or we sha’n’t catch them,” I whispered. “Some boys have climbed over the wall, and are after the Marie Louise pears.”

He stopped short suddenly.

“Yah!” he cried, “they ain’t. It’s your larks.”

“You stupid fellow! I tell you they are.”

“Mary Louisas ain’t ripe,” he cried.

“Don’t care; they’ve gone after them. Come, and bring a stick.”

“Fain larks,” he said dubiously.

“Just as if I would play tricks with you!” I cried impatiently.

“No, you wouldn’t, would yer?” he said hoarsely. “Wouldn’t be hard on a chap. Stop a minute.”

He rustled off amongst the straw, and I heard a rattling noise and then a chuckle, and Shock was back to hand me a stick as thick as my finger.

“Hezzles,” he whispered—“nut hezzle. Come along. You go first.”

Though I had roused Shock out of bed he had no dressing to do, and following me down the ladder he walked quickly after me down one of the paths, then to the right along another till we came to a corner, when we both stopped and listened.

Shock began to hiss very softly, as if he were a steam-engine with the vapour escaping from the safety-valve, as we heard, about fifty yards from us, the rustling of the pear-trees, the heavy shake of a bough, and then through the pitchy darkness whop! whop! whop! whop! as the pears fell on to the soft ground.

“You go this way,” I whispered to Shock, “and I’ll go that way, and then we’ll rush in and catch them.”

“Yes,” he said back. “Hit hard, and mind and get hold o’ the bag.”

We were separating when he caught hold of my arm.

“’Old ’ard,” he whispered. “Let’s rush ’em together.”

In the darkness perhaps his was the better plan. At all events we adopted it, and taking hold of hands we advanced on tiptoe trembling with expectation, our sticks grasped, and every now and then the pendent branches of some tree rustling in and sweeping our faces. And all the time, just in front, we could hear the hurried shaking of boughs, the fall of the pears, and tittering and whispering as the party seemed to be picking up the spoil.

“We shall have too many,” whispered a voice just before us.

“Never mind; let’s fill the bag. Go it, boys.”

“Hush! Some one’ll hear.”

“Not they. Go on. Here’s a bough loaded. Oh, I say!” Shock gave my hand a nip to which I responded, and then all at once from under the tree where we stood we made a rush at the indistinct figures we could sometimes make out a few yards away.

Whish, rush, whack!

“I say what are you doing of?”

“Oh!”

“Run! run!”

“Oh!”

These ejaculations were mingled with the blows dealt by our sticks, several of which fell upon heads, backs, legs, and arms, anywhere, though more struck the trees; and in the excitement one I delivered did no end of mischief to a young pear-tree, and brought down a shower of fruit upon my head.

It was all the work of a few moments. At the first the marauding party thought it was some trick of a companion; directly after they scattered and ran, under the impression that Old Brownsmith and all his men were in pursuit.

As for me, I felt red-hot with excitement, and found myself after a dash through some gooseberry bushes, whose pricking only seemed to give me fresh energy, running along a path after one boy at whom I kept cutting with my hazel stick.

At every stroke there was a howl from the boy, who kept on shouting as he ran:

“Oh! please, sir—oh! sir—don’t, sir—oh! pray, sir!”

In my hard-heartedness and excitement I showed no mercy, but every time I got near enough as we panted on I gave him a sharp cut, and he would have been punished far worse if all at once I had not run right into a hanging bough of one of the pears, and gone down backwards, while when I scrambled up again my stick was gone.

I felt that if I waited to search for it I should lose the boy I meant to make a prisoner, and ran on in the direction where I could hear his steps.

Knowing the garden as I did I was able to make a cut so as to recover the lost ground, for I realised that he was making for the wall, and I was just in time to catch him as he scrambled up one of the trained trees, and had his chest on the top.

He would have been over in another second or two had I not made a jump at his legs, one of which I caught, and, twisting my arms round it, I held on with all my might.

“Oh! oh!” he yelled pitifully. “Pray let me go, sir. I’ll never come no more, sir. Help! oh my! help!”

“Come down,” I panted as well as I could for want of breath, “come down!” and I gave the leg I held a tremendous shake.

“Oh!—oh! Pray let me go this time, sir.”

“Come down,” I cried again fiercely, and I nearly dragged him from the wall, as I held on with all my might.

“No, sir! oh, sir! It wasn’t me, sir. It was—oh, please let me go!”

The voice sounded as if it were on the outside of the wall, as my captive hung by his elbows and chest, while I could feel the leg I held quiver and tremble as I tugged hard to get its owner down into the garden; but distant and muffled as that voice was, it seemed familiar when it yelled again:

“Oh I pray let me go this time, sir.”

“No,” I shouted, as I gave the leg a snatch and hung on, “Come down, you thieving rascal, come down.”

“Why, it’s you, is it?” came from the top of the wall, a little plainer now.

“What! George Day!” I exclaimed, but without relaxing my hold.

“Oh, you sneak!” he cried. “Let go, will you.”

“No,” I cried stoutly. “Come down.”

“Sha’n’t. It ain’t your place. Let go, you sneak.”

“I sha’n’t,” I cried angrily. “Come down, you thief.”

“If you call me a thief I’ll come down and half smash you. Let go!”

His courage returned as he found out who was his captor, and he kicked out savagely, but I held on.

“Do you hear?” he cried. “Here, let go, and I’ll give you a fourpenny piece out of my next pocket-money.”

“You come down to Mr Brownsmith,” I cried.

“Get out! You know who I am: George Day.”

“I know you’re a thief, and I shall take you up to Mr Brownsmith,” I said, “and here he comes.”

“If you don’t let go,” he cried with a sudden access of fury, “I’ll just come down and I’ll—”

He did not finish his threat. I daresay it would have been something very dreadful, but I was not in the least frightened as I held on; but as he clung to the big quaint coping of the wall he suddenly gave two or three such tremendous kicks that one of them, aided by his getting his free foot on my shoulder, was given with such force that I was driven backwards, and after staggering a few steps, caught my heel and came down in a sitting position upon the path.

I leaped to my feet again, but only just in time to hear a scuffling noise on the top of the wall, the sound of some one dropping on the other side, and then pat, pat, pat, steps fast repeated, as my prisoner ran away.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, with a stamp of the foot in my disappointment.

“Chiv-ee! Why, ho! Where are yer?”

“Here, Shock!” I cried in answer to the shout on my right, and the boy came running up.

“Got him?”

“No,” I replied. “He climbed up the wall and kicked me backwards. Didn’t you catch one?”

“No. They skiddled off like rabbuts, and the one I tried to run down dodged me in the dark, and when I heerd him he was close up to the fence t’other side, and got away. Didn’t I give it some of ’em though!”

“Oh! I do wish we had caught one,” I exclaimed; and then I felt as if I did not wish so, especially as the boy I had chased was George Day.

“They didn’t get the pears,” said Shock suddenly; and now it struck me that we had suddenly grown to be wonderfully talkative, and the best of friends.

“No,” I replied, “I don’t think they got the pears. Let’s go and see.”

We trudged off, I for my part feeling very stiff, and as if all the excitement had gone out of the adventure; and in a minute we were feeling about under the pear-trees, and kicking against fallen fruit.

“Here she is,” said Shock suddenly. “Big bag. Stodge full.”

I ran to him, and was in the act of passing my hands over the bulging bag when I uttered a faint cry of horror, for something soft seemed to have dropped upon my back, and a voice from out of the darkness exclaimed:

“What are you boys doing here?”

At the same moment I knew that it was one of the cats that had leaped upon my back, and Old Brownsmith who was speaking.

“We have been after some boys who were stealing the pears, sir,” I said.

“Were they?” cried the old man sternly; “and I’ve come and caught them. You, Shock, bring that bag up to the door.”

Shock seized and shouldered the bag, and we followed the old gentleman to the house; but though I spoke two or three times he made no reply, and I felt too much hurt by his suspicions to say more.

There was a large house lantern alight in the kitchen, as if the old gentleman had been about to bring it down the garden with him and had altered his mind, and the first thing he did was to open the lantern, take out the candle in his fingers, and hold it up so as to look at each of us in turn, frowning and suspicious, while we shrank and half-closed our eyes, dazzled by the light.

Then he turned his attention to the big bag which Shock had placed upon the table, the top of which opened out, and a pear or two rolled upon the floor as soon as it was released.

“Humph! Pillow-case, eh?” said the old man, and his face brightened as if the suspicion was being cleared away. “Who heard ’em?”

“I did, sir,” I cried; and I told him how I had wakened up Shock, and of our fight; but I did not mention George Day’s name, and I did not mean to do so unless I was asked, for it seemed to be so shocking for a boy like that to be charged with stealing fruit.

“Humph! Ought to have caught some of the dogs! but I say, did you hit ’em hard?”

“As hard as I could, sir,” I replied innocently.

“Hah! aha! That’s right. Young scoundrels. Spoilt a basket of pears that were not ripe. Young dogs! I’ll put glass bottles all along the walls, and see how they like that. There, be off to bed.”

I hesitated.

“Well,” he said, “what is it?”

“You don’t think it was I who went to steal the pears, sir?” I said uneasily.

“My good boy, no!” he said. “Pooh! nonsense! Looked like it at first. Caught you dirty-handed. Good night!”

He turned away, and I ran into the yard, where Shock was slowly going back to his hole in the straw.

“Good night, Shock!” I said.

He stopped without turning round, and did not reply. It was as if the sulky morose fit had come over him again, but it did not last, for he half turned his head and said:

“I hit one on ’em such a crack on the nut.”

Then he went to the ladder and climbed up into the loft, and I stood listening to him as he nestled down in amongst the straw. Then Old Brownsmith came to the back-door with the lantern and called me in to go up to my room.

Chapter Thirteen.

Learning my Lessons.

Next morning the old gentleman talked at breakfast-time about the police, and having the young scoundrels sent to prison. Directly after, he went down the garden with me and nine cats, to inspect the damages, and when he saw the trampling and breaking of boughs he stroked a tom-cat and made it purr, while he declared fiercely that he would not let an hour pass without having the young dogs punished.

“They shall be caught and sent to prison,” he cried.

“Poor old Sammy then.—I’ll have ’em severely punished, the young depredators.—Grant, you’d better get a sharp knife and a light ladder, and cut off those broken boughs—the young villains—and tell Ike to bring a big rake and smooth out these footmarks. No; I’ll tell him. You get the knife. I shall go to the police at once.”

I cut out the broken boughs, and Ike brought down the ladder for me and smoothed over the footmarks, chatting about the events of the past night the while.

“He won’t get no police to work, my lad, not he. Forget all about it directly. Makes him a bit raw, o’ course,” said Ike, smoothing away with the rake. “Haw! haw! haw! Think o’ you two leathering of ’em. I wish I’d been here, ’stead of on the road to London. Did you hit ’em hard?”

“Hard as I could,” I said. “I think Shock and I punished them enough.”

“So do I. So do he. Rare and frightened they was too. Why, o’ course boys will steal apples. I dunno how it is, but they always would, and will.”

“But these were pears,” I said.

“All the same, only one’s longer than t’other. Apples and pears. He won’t do nothing.”

Ike was right, for the matter was soon forgotten, and Mrs Dodley his housekeeper used the pillow-case as a bag for clothes-pegs.

Those were bright and pleasant days, for though now and then some trouble came like a cloud over my life there was more often plenty of sunshine to clear that cloud away.

My uncles came to see me, first one and then the other, and they had very long talks with Mr Brownsmith.

One of them told me I was a very noble boy, and that he was proud of me. He said he was quite sure I should turn out a man.

“Talks to the boy as if he felt he might turn out a woman,” Old Brownsmith grumbled after he was gone.

It was some time after before the other came, and he looked me all over as if he were trying to find a hump or a crooked rib. Then he said it was all right, and that I could not do better.

One of them said when he went away that he should not lose sight of me, but remember me now and then; and when he had gone Old Brownsmith said, half aloud:

“Thank goodness, I never had no uncles!” Then he gave me a comical look, but turned serious directly.

“Look here, Grant,” he said. “Some folk start life with their gardens already dug up and planted, some begin with their bit of ground all rough, and some begin without any land at all. Which do you belong to?”

“The last, sir,” I said.

“Right! Well, I suppose you are not going to wait for one uncle to take a garden for you and the other to dig it up?”

“No,” I said sturdily; “I shall work for myself.”

“Right! I don’t like boys to be cocky and impudent but I like a little self-dependence.”

As the time went on, Old Brownsmith taught me how to bud roses and prune, and, later on, to graft. He used to encourage me to ask questions, and I must have pestered him sometimes, but he never seemed weary.

“It’s quite right,” he used to say; “the boy who asks questions learns far more than the one who is simply taught.”

“Why, sir?” I said.

“Well, I’ll tell you. He has got his bit of ground ready, and is waiting for the seed or young plant to be popped in. Then it begins to grow at once. Don’t you see this; he has half-learned what he wants to know in the desire he feels. That desire is satisfied when he is told, and the chances are that he never forgets. Now you say to me—What is the good of pruning or cutting this plum-tree? I’ll tell you.”

We were standing in front of the big red brick wall one bright winter’s day, for the time had gone by very quickly. Old Brownsmith had a sharp knife in his hand, and I was holding the whetstone and a thin-bladed saw that he used to cut through the thicker branches.

“Now look here, Grant. Here’s this plum-tree, and if you look at it you will see that there are two kinds of wood in it.”

“Two kinds of wood, sir?”

“Yes. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“No, sir; only that some of the shoots are big and strong, and some are little and twiggy.”

“Exactly: that is the difference, my lad. Well, can you see any more difference in the shoots?”

I looked for some moments, and then replied:

“Yes; these big shoots are long and smooth and straight, and the little twiggy ones are all over sharp points.”

“Then as there is too much wood there, which had we better cut out. What should you do?”

“Cut out the scrubby little twigs, and nail up these nice long shoots.”

“That’s the way, Grant! Now you’ll know more about pruning after this than Shock has learned in two years. Look here, my lad; you’ve fallen into everybody’s mistake, as a matter of course. Those fine long shoots will grow into big branches; those little twigs with the points, as you call them, are fruit spurs, covered with blossom buds. If I cut them out I should have no plums next year, but a bigger and a more barren tree. No, my boy, I don’t want to grow wood, but fruit. Look here.”

I looked, and he cut out with clean, sharp strokes all those long shoots but one, carefully leaving the wood and bark smooth, while to me it seemed as if he were cutting half the tree away.

“You’ve left one, sir,” I said.

“Yes, Grant, I’ve left one; and I’ll show you why. Do you see this old hard bough?”

I nodded.

“Well, this one has done its work, so I’m going to cut it out, and let this young shoot take its place.”

“But it has no fruit buds on it,” I said quickly.

“No, Grant; but it will have next year; and that’s one thing we gardeners always have to do with stone-fruit trees—keep cutting out the old wood and letting the young shoots take the old branches’ place.”

“Why, sir?” I asked.

“Because old branches bear small fruit, young branches bear large, and large fruit is worth more than twice as much as small. Give me the saw.”

I handed him the thin-bladed saw, and he rapidly cut out the old hard bough, close down to the place where it branched from the dumpy trunk, and then, handing me the tool, he knelt down on a pad of carpet he carried in his tremendous pocket.

“Now look here,” he said; and taking his sharp pruning-knife he cut off every mark of the saw, and trimmed the bark.

I looked on attentively till he had ended.

“Well,” he said, “ain’t you going to ask why I did that?”

“I know, sir,” I said. “To make it neat.”

“Only partly right, Grant. I’ve cut that off smoothly so that no rain may lodge and rot the place before the wound has had time to heal.”

“And will it heal, sir?”

“Yes, Grant. In time Nature will spread a ring of bark round that, which will thicken and close in till the place is healed completely over.”

Then he busily showed me the use of the saw and knife among the big standard trees, using them liberally to get rid of all the scrubby, crowded, useless branches that lived upon the strength of the tree and did no work, only kept out the light, air, and sunshine from those that did work and bear fruit.

“Why it almost seems, sir,” I said one day, “as if Nature had made the trees so badly that man was obliged to improve them.”

“Ah, I’m glad to hear you say that, my lad,” he said; “but you are not right. I’m only a gardener, but I’ve noticed these things a great deal. Nature is not a bungler. She gives us apple and plum trees, and they grow and bear fruit in a natural and sufficient way. It is because man wants them to bear more and bigger fruit, and for more to grow on a small piece of ground than Nature would plant, that man has to cut and prune.”

“But suppose Nature planted a lot of trees on a small piece of ground,” I said, “what then?”

“What then, Grant? Why, for a time they’d grow up thin and poor and spindly, till one of them made a start and overtopped the others. Then it would go on growing, and the others would dwindle and die away.”

The time glided on, and I kept learning the many little things about the place pretty fast. As the months went on I became of some use to my employer over his accounts, and by degrees pretty well knew his position.

It seemed that he had been a widower for many years, and Mrs Dodley, the housekeeper and general servant all in one, confided to me one day that “Missus’s” bonnets and shawls and gowns were all hanging up in their places just as they had been left by Mrs Brownsmith.

“Which it’s a dead waste, Master Grant,” she used to finish by saying, “as there’s several as I know would be glad to have ’em; but as to that—Lor’ bless yer!”

It was not often that Mrs Dodley spoke, but when she did it was to inveigh against some oppression or trouble.

Candles were a great burden to the scrupulously clean woman.

“Tens I says,” she confided to me one day, “but he will have eights, and what’s the consequence? If I want to do a bit of extry needle-work I might light up two tens, but I should never have the heart to burn two eights at once, for extravagance I can’t abear. Ah! he’s a hard master, and I’m sorry for you, my dear.”

“Why?” I said.

“Ah! you’ll find out some day,” she said, shaking her head and then bustling off to her work.

I had not much companionship, for Ike was generally too busy to say a word, and though after the pear adventure Shock did nothing more annoying to me than to stand now and then upon his head, look at me upside down, and point and spar at me with his toes, we seemed to get to be no better friends.

He took to that trick all at once one day in a soft bit of newly dug earth. He was picking up stones, and I was sticking fresh labels at the ends of some rows of plants, when all at once he uttered a peculiar monkey-like noise, down went his head, up went his heels, and I stared in astonishment at first and then turned my back.

This always annoyed Shock; but one day when he stood up after his quaint fashion I was out of temper and had a bad headache, so I ran to him, and he struck at me with his feet, just as if they had been hands, only he could not have doubled them up. I was too quick for him though, and with a push drove him down.

He jumped up again directly and repeated the performance.

I knocked him down angrily.

He stood up again.

I knocked him down again.

And so on, again and again, when he turned and ran off laughing, and I went on with my work, vexed with myself for having shown temper.

Every now and then a fit of low spirits used to attack me. It was generally on washing-days, when Mrs Dodley filled the place with steam early in the morning by lighting the copper fire, and then seeming to be making calico puddings to boil and send an unpleasant soapy odour through the house.

Doors and chair backs were so damp and steamy then that I used to be glad to go out and see Shock, whom I often used to find right away in the little shed indulging in a bit of cookery of his own.

If Shock’s hands had been clean I could often have joined him in his feasts, but I never could fancy turnips boiled in a dirty old sauce-pan, nor tender bits of cabbage stump. I made up my mind that I would some day try snails, but when I did join Shock on a soaking wet morning when there was no gardening, and he invited me in his sulky way to dinner, the only times I partook of his fare were on chat days.

What are chat days? Why, the days when he used to have a good fire of wood and stumps, and roast the chats, as they called the little refuse potatoes too small for seed, in the ashes.

They were very nice, though there was not much in one. Still they were hot and floury, and not bad with a bit of salt.

Wet days, though, were always a trouble to me, and I used to feel a kind of natural sympathy with Mr Brownsmith as he set his men jobs in the sheds, and kept walking to the doors to see if the rain had ceased.

“That’s one thing I should like to have altered in nature,” he said to me with one of his dry comical looks. “I should like the rain to come down in the night, my boy, so as to leave the day free for work. Always work.”

“I like it, sir,” I said.

“No, you don’t, you young impostor!” he cried. “You want to be playing with tops or marbles, or at football or something.”

I shook my head.

“You do, you dog!” he cried.

I shook my head again.

“No, sir,” I said; “I like learning all about the plants and the pruning. Ike showed me on some dead wood the other day how to graft.”

“Ah, I’ll show you how to do it on live wood some day. There’s a lot more things I should like to show you, but I’ve no glass.”

“No,” I said; “I’ve often wished we had a microscope.”

“A what, Grant?”

“Microscope, sir, to look at the blight and the veins in the plants’ leaves.”

“No, no; I mean greenhouses and forcing-houses, where fruit and vegetables and flowers are brought on early: but wait a bit.”

I did wait a bit, and went on learning, getting imperceptibly to know a good deal about gardening, and so a couple of years slipped away, when one day I was superintending the loading of the cart after seeing that it was properly supported with trestles. Ike was seated astride one of the large baskets as if it were a saddle, and taking off his old hat he began to indulge in a good scratch at his head.

“Lookye here,” he exclaimed suddenly, “why don’t you go to market?”

“Too young,” I said, with a feeling of eagerness flashing through me.

“Not you,” he said slowly, as he looked down at me and seemed to measure me with his eye as one of my uncles did. “There’s a much littler boy than you goes with one of the carts, and I see him cutting about the market with a book under his arm, looking as chuff as a pea on a shovel. He ain’t nothing to you. Come along o’ me. I’ll take an old coat for wrapper, and you’ll be as right as the mail. You ask him. He’ll let you come.”

Ike was wrong, for when I asked Old Brownsmith’s leave he shook his head.

“No, no, boy. You’re too young yet. Best in bed.”

“Too partickler by half,” Ike growled when I let him know the result of my asking. “He’s jealous, that’s what he is. Wants to keep you all to hisself. Not as I wants you. ’Tain’t to please me. You’re young and wants eddicating; well, you wants night eddication as well as day eddication. What do you know about the road to London of a night?”

“Nothing at all, Ike?” I said with a sigh.

“Scholard as you are too,” growled Ike. “Why, my figgering and writing ain’t even worth talking about with a pen, though I am good with chalk, but even I know the road to London.”

“He’ll let me go some day,” I said.

“Some day!” cried Ike in a tone of disgust. “Any one could go by day. It’s some night’s the time. Ah! it is a pity, much as you’ve got to learn too. There’s the riding up with the stars over your heads, and the bumping of the cart, and the bumping and rattle of other carts, as you can hear a mile away on a still night before and behind you, and then the getting on to the stones.”

“On to the stones, Ike?” I said.

“Yes, of course, on to the paving-stones, and the getting into the market and finding a good pitch, and the selling off in the morning. Ah! it would be a treat for you, my lad. I’m sorry for yer.”

Ike’s sorrow lasted, and I grew quite uneasy at last through being looked down upon with so much contempt; but, as is often the case, I had leave when I least expected it.

We had been very busy cutting, bunching, and packing flowers one day, when all at once Old Brownsmith came and looked at my slate with the total of the flower baskets set down side by side with the tale of the strawberry baskets, for it was in the height of the season.

“Big load to-night, Grant,” the old gentleman said.

“Yes, sir; largest load you’ve sent up this year,” I replied, in all my newly-fledged importance as a young clerk.

“You had better go up with Ike to-night, Grant,” said the old man suddenly. “You are big enough now, and a night out won’t hurt you. Here, Ike!”

“Yes, master.”

“You’ll want a little help to-morrow morning to stand by you in the market. Will you have Shock?”

“Yes, master, he’s the very thing, if you’ll send some one to hold him, or lend me a dog-collar and chain.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Ike,” said Old Brownsmith sharply.

“No, master.”

“Would you rather have this boy?”

“Would I rather? Just hark at him!”

Ike looked round at me as if this was an excellent joke, but Old Brownsmith took it as being perfectly serious, and gave Ike a series of instructions about taking care of me.

“Of course you will not go to a public-house on the road.”

“’Tain’t likely,” growled Ike, “’less he gets leading me astray and takes me there.”

“There’s a coffee-shop in Great Russell Street where you can get your breakfasts.”

“Lookye here, master,” growled Ike in an ill-humoured voice, “ain’t I been to market afore?”

“I shall leave him in your charge, Ike, and expect you to take care of him.”

“Oh, all right, master!” said Ike, and then the old gentleman gave me a nod and walked away.

“At last, Ike!” I cried. “Hurrah! Why, what’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter?” said Ike in tones of disgust; “why, everything’s the matter. Here, let’s have a look at you, boy. Yes,” he continued, turning me round, and as if talking to himself, “it is a boy. Any one to hear him would have thought it was a sugar-stick.”

Chapter Fourteen.

A Night Journey.

It seemed to me as if starting-time would never come, and I fidgeted in and out from the kitchen to the stable to see if Ike had come back, while Mrs Dodley kept on shaking her at me in a pitying way.

“Hadn’t you better give it, up, my dear?” she said dolefully. “Out all night! It’ll be a trying time.”

“What nonsense!” I said. “Why, sailors have to keep watch of a night regularly.”

“When the stormy wynds do blow,” said Mrs Dodley with something between a sniff and a sob. “Does Mrs Beeton know you are going?”

“No,” I said stoutly.

“My poor orphan bye,” she said with a real sob. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“Why, Mrs Dodley,” I cried, “any one would think I was a baby.”

“Here, Grant,” cried Mr Brownsmith, “hadn’t you better lie down for an hour or two. You’ve plenty of time.”

“No, sir,” I said stoutly; “I couldn’t sleep if I did.”

“Well, then, come and have some supper.”

That I was quite willing to have, and I sat there, with the old gentleman looking at me every now and then with a smile.

“You will not feel so eager as this next time, Master Grant.”

At last I heard the big latch rattle on the gate, and started up in the greatest excitement. Old Brownsmith gave me a nod, and as I passed through the kitchen Mrs Dodley looked at me with such piteous eyes and so wrinkled a forehead that I stopped.

“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t ask me, my dear, don’t ask me. What could master be a-thinking!”

Her words filled me with so much dread that I hurried out into the yard, hardly knowing which I feared most—to go, or to be forced to stay at home, for the adventure through the dark hours of the night began to seem to be something far more full of peril than I had thought a ride up to market on the cart would prove.

The sight of Ike, however, made me forget the looks of Mrs Dodley, and I was soon busy with him in the stable—that is to say, I held the lantern while he harnessed “Basket,” the great gaunt old horse whom I had so nicknamed on account of the way in which his ribs stuck out through his skin.

“You don’t give him enough to eat, Ike,” I said.

“Not give him enough to eat!” he replied. “Wo ho, Bonyparty, shove yer head through. That’s the way. Not give him enough to eat, my lad! Lor’ bless you, the more he eats the thinner he gets. He finds the work too hard for him grinding his oats, for he’s got hardly any teeth worth anything.”

“Is he so old, then?” I asked, as I saw collar and hames and the rest of the heavy harness adjusted.

“Old! I should just think he is, my lad. Close upon two hunderd I should say’s his age.”

“Nonsense!” I said; “horses are very old indeed at twenty!”

“Some horses; but he was only a baby then. He’s the oldest horse as ever was, and about the best; ain’t you, Basket? Come along, old chap.”

The horse gave a bit of a snort and followed the man in a slow deliberate way, born of custom, right out into the yard to where the trestle-supported cart stood. Then as I held the lantern the great bony creature turned and backed itself clumsily in between the shafts, and under the great framework ladder piled up with baskets till its tail touched the front of the cart, when it heaved a long sigh as if of satisfaction.

“Look at that!” said Ike; “no young horse couldn’t have done that, my lad;” and as if to deny the assertion, Basket gave himself a shake which made the chains of his harness rattle. “Steady, old man,” cried Ike as he hooked on the chains to the shaft, and then going to the other side he started. “Hullo! what are you doing here?” he cried, and the light fell upon Shock, who had busily fastened the chains on the other side.

He did not speak, but backed off into the darkness.

“Got your coat, squire?” cried Ike. “That’s well. Open the gates, Shock. That’s your sort. Now, then, ‘Basket,’ steady.”

The horse made the chains rattle as he stuck the edges of his hoofs into the gravel, the wheels turned, the great axle-tree rattled; there was a swing of the load to left and another to right, a bump or two, and we were out in the lane, going steadily along upon a lovely starlight night.

As soon as we were clear of the yard, and Shock could be heard closing the gates and rattling up the bar, Ike gave his long cart-whip three tremendous cracks, and I expected to see “Basket” start off in a lumbering trot; but he paid not the slightest heed to the sharp reports, and it was evidently only a matter of habit, for Ike stuck the whip directly after in an iron loop close by where the horse’s great well-filled nose-bag was strapped to the front-ladder, beneath which there was a sack fairly filled with good old hay.

“Yes,” said Ike, seeing the direction of my eyes, “we don’t starve the old hoss; do we, Bonyparty?”

He slapped the horse’s haunch affectionately, and Basket wagged his tail, while the cart jolted on.

The clock was striking eleven, and sounded mellow and sweet on the night air as we made for the main road, having just ten miles to go to reach the market, only a short journey in these railway times, but one which it took the bony old horse exactly five hours to compass.

“It seems a deal,” I said. “I could walk it in much less time.”

“Well, yes, Master Grant,” said Ike, rubbing his nose; “it do seem a deal, five hours—two mile an hour; but a horse is a boss, and you can’t make nothing else out of him till he’s dead. I’ve been to market with him hunderds upon hunderds of times, and he says it’s five hours’ work, and he takes five hours to do it in; no more, and no less. P’r’a’ps I might get him up sooner if I used the whip; but how would you like any one to use a whip on you when you was picking apples or counting baskets of strawbys into a wan?”

“Not at all,” I said, laughing.

“Well, then, what call is there to use it on a boss? He knows what he can do, and he doos it.”

“Has Mr Brownsmith had him long?”

“Has Old Brownsmith had him long?” he said correctively. “Oh, yes! ages. I don’t know how long. He had him and he was a old boss when I come, and that’s years ago. He’s done nothing but go uppards and down’ards all his life, and he must know how long it takes by now, mustn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.

“Of course he do, my lad. He knows just where his orf forefoot ought to be at one o’clock, and his near hind-foot at two. Why, he goes like clockwork. I just winds him up once with a bit o’ corn and a drink o’ water, starts him, and there’s his old legs go tick-tack, tick-tack, and his head swinging like a pendulow. Use ’is secon’ natur’, and all I’ve got to do is to tie up the reins to the fore ladder and go to sleep if I like, for he knows his way as well as a Christian. ’Leven o’clock I starts; four o’clock he gets to the market; and if it wasn’t for thieves, and some one to look after the baskets, that old hoss could go and do the marketing all hisself.”

It was all wonderfully fresh and enjoyable to me, that ride along the quiet country road, with another market cart jolting on about a hundred yards ahead, and another one as far behind, while no doubt there were plenty more, but they did not get any closer together, and no one seemed to hurry or trouble in the least.

We trudged on together for some distance, and then Ike made a couple of seats for us under the ladder by folding up sacks, on one of which I sat, on the other he. Very uncomfortable seats I should call them now; most enjoyable I thought them then, and with no other drawback than a switch now and then from the horse’s long tail, an attention perfectly unnecessary, for at that time of night there were no flies.

There was not much to see but hedgerows and houses and fields as we jolted slowly on. Once we met what Ike called the “padrole,” and the mounted policeman, in his long cloak and with the scabbard of his sabre peeping from beneath, looked to me a very formidable personage; but he was not too important to wish Ike a friendly good-night.

We had passed the horse-patrol about a quarter of a mile, when all at once we heard some one singing, or rather howling:

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

This was repeated over and over again, and seemed as we sat there under our basket canopy to come from some one driving behind us; but the jolting of the cart and the grinding of wheels and the horse’s trampling drowned the sound of the following vehicle, and there it went on:

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

But the singer pronounced it Do-ho-ver; and then it went on over and over again.

“Yes,” said Ike, as if he had been talking about something; “them padroles put a stop to that game.”

“What game?” I said.

“Highwaymen’s. This used to be one of their fav’rite spots, from here away to Hounslow Heath. There was plenty of ’em in the old days, with their spanking horses and their pistols, and their ‘stand and deliver’ to the coach passengers. Now you couldn’t find a highwayman for love or money, even if you wanted him to stuff and putt in a glass case.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

“I wish you’d stopped there,” said Ike, in a grumbling voice. “Ah, those used to be days. That’s where Dick Turpin used to go, you know—Hounslow Heath.”

“But there are none now?” I said, with some little feeling of trepidation.

“Didn’t I tell you, no,” said Ike, “unless that there’s one coming on behind. How much money have you got, lad?”

“Two shillings and sixpence and some halfpence.”

“And I’ve got five and two, lad. Wouldn’t pay to keep a blood-horse to rob us, would it?”

“No,” I said. “Didn’t they hang the highwaymen in chains, Ike?”

“To be sure they did. I see one myself swinging about on Hounslow Heath.”

“Wasn’t it very horrible?”

“I dunno. Dessay it was. Just look how reg’lar old Bonyparty goes along, don’t he—just in the same part of the road? I dessay he’s a-counting all the steps he takes, and checking of ’em off to see how many more he’s got to go through.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

“I say, I wish that chap would pass us—it worries me,” cried Ike pettishly. Then he went on: “Roads warn’t at all safe in those days, my lad. There was footpads too—chaps as couldn’t afford to have horses, and they used to hang under the hedges, just like that there dark one yonder, and run out and lay holt of the reins, and hold a pistol to a man’s head.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

“Go agen then, and stop,” growled Ike irritably. “Swep’ all away, my lad, by the road-police, and now—”

“There’s a man standing in the dark here under this hedge, Ike,” I whispered. “Is—is he likely to be a foot-pad?”

“Either a footpad or a policeman. Which does he look like?” said Ike.

“Policeman,” I whispered. “I think I saw the top of his hat shine.”

“Right, lad. You needn’t be scared about them sort o’ gentlemen now. As Old Brownsmith says, gas and steam-engines and police have done away with them, and the road’s safe enough, night or day.”

We jolted on past the policeman, who turned his bull’s-eye lantern upon us for a moment, so that I could see Basket’s ribs and the profile of Ike’s great nose as he bent forward with his arms resting on his legs. There was a friendly “good-night,” and we had left him about a couple of hundred yards behind, when, amidst the jolting of the cart and the creaking of the baskets overhead, ike said suddenly:

“Seem to have left that chap behind, or else he’s gone to—”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

“Why, if he ar’n’t there agen!” cried Ike savagely. “Look here, it worries me. I’d rayther have a dog behind barking than a chap singing like that. I hates singing.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

“Look here,” said Ike; “I shall just draw to one side and wait till he’ve gone by. Steady, Bony; woa, lad! Now he may go on, and sing all the way to Dover if he likes.”

Suiting the action to the word Ike pulled one rein; but Basket kept steadily on, and Ike pulled harder. But though Ike pulled till he drew the horse’s head round so that he could look at us, the legs went on in the same track, and we did not even get near the side of the road.

“He knows it ain’t right to stop here,” growled Ike. “Woa, will yer! What a obstin’t hammer-headed old buffler it is! Woa!”

Basket paid not the slightest heed for a few minutes. Then, as if he suddenly comprehended, he stopped short.

“Thankye,” said Ike drily; “much obliged. It’s my belief, though, that the wicked old walking scaffold was fast asleep, and has on’y just woke up.”

“Why, he couldn’t go on walking in his sleep, Ike,” I exclaimed.

“Not go on walking in his sleep, mate! That there hoss couldn’t! Bless your ’art, he’d do a deal more wonderful things than that. Well, that there chap’s a long time going by. I can’t wait.”

Ike looked back, holding on by the iron support of the ladder.

“I carnt see nothing. Just you look, mate, your side.” I looked back too, but could see nothing, and said so. “It’s strange,” growled Ike. “Go on, Bony.” The horse started again, the baskets creaked, the wheels ground the gravel, and the cart jolted and jerked in its own particular springless way, and then all of a sudden:

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

Ike looked sharply round at me, as if he half suspected me of ventriloquism, and it seemed so comical that I began to laugh.

“Look here,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “don’t you laugh. There’s something wrong about this here.”

He turned the other way, and holding tightly by the ladder looked out behind, leaning a good way from the side of the cart.

“I can’t see nothinct,” he grumbled, as he drew back and bent forward to pat the horse. “Seems rum.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.” There was the song or rather howl again, sounding curiously distant, and yet, odd as it may seem, curiously near, and Ike leant towards me.

“I say,” he whispered, “did you ever hear of anything being harnted?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ve heard of haunted houses.”

“But you never heerd of a harnted market cart, did yer?”

“No,” I said laughing; “never.”

“That’s right,” he whispered.

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

I burst out laughing, though the next moment I felt a little queer, for Ike laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t laugh, my lad,” he whispered; “there’s some’at queer ’bout this here.”

“Why, nonsense, Ike!” I said.

“Ah! you may say it’s nonsense; but I don’t like it.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

This came very softly now, and it had such an effect on Ike that he jumped down from the shaft into the road, and taking his whip from the staple in which it was stuck, he let the cart pass him, and came round the back to my side.

“Well?” I said; “is there a cart behind?”

“I can’t hear one, and I can’t see one,” he whispered; “and I says it’s very queer. I don’t like it, my lad, so there.”

He let the cart pass him, went back behind it again, reached his own seat, and climbed in under the ladder.

Bump, jolt, creak, on we went, and all at once Basket kicked a flint stone, and there was a tiny flash of fire.

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

There it was again, so loud that Ike seized the reins, and by main force tried to stop the horse, which resisted with all its might, and then stopped short with the baskets giving a jerk that threatened to send them over the front ladder, on to the horse’s back.

Ike jumped down on one side and I jumped down on the other. I was not afraid, but the big fellow’s uneasiness had its effect upon me, and I certainly felt uncomfortable. There was something strange about riding along that dark road in the middle of the night, and this being my first experience of sitting up till morning the slightest thing was enough to put me off my balance.

The horse went on, and Ike and I met at the back, looked about us, and then silently returned to our seats, climbing up without stopping the horse; but we had not been there a minute before Ike bounded off again, for there once more, buzzing curiously in the air, came that curious howling song:

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”

I slipped off too, and Ike ran round, whip in hand, and gripped my arm.

“It was your larks,” he growled savagely, as I burst into a fit of laughing.

“It wasn’t,” I cried, as soon as I could speak. “Give me the whip,” I whispered.

“What for?” he growled.

“You give me the whip,” I whispered; and I took it from his hand, trotted on to the side of the cart, and then reaching up, gave a cut over the top of the load.

“Stash that!” shouted a voice; and then, as I lashed again, “You leave off, will yer? You’ll get something you don’t like.”

“Woa, Bony!” roared Ike with such vehemence that the horse stopped short, and there, kneeling on the top of the high load of baskets, we could dimly see a well-known figure, straw-hat and all.

“You want me to come down, an’ ’it you?” he cried, writhing.

“Here, give me that whip,” cried Ike fiercely. “How did you come there?”

“Got up,” said Shock sulkily.

“Who told you to come?”

“No one. He’s come, ain’t he?”

“That’s no reason why you should come. Get down, you young dog!”

“Sha’n’t!”

“You give’s holt o’ that whip, and I’ll flick him down like I would a fly.”

“No, no; don’t hurt him, Ike,” I said, laughing. “What were you making that noise for, Shock?”

“He calls that singing,” cried Ike, spitting on the ground in his disgust. “He calls that singing. He’s been lying on his back, howling up at the sky like a sick dog, and he calls that singing. Here, give us that whip.”

“No, no, Ike; let him be.”

“Yes; he’d better,” cried Shock defiantly.

“Yes; I had better,” cried Ike, snatching the whip from me, and giving it a crack like the report of a gun, with the result that Basket started off, and would not stop any more.

“Come down,” roared Ike.

“Sha’n’t!” cried Shock. “You ’it me, and I’ll cut the rope and let the baskets down.”

“Come down then.”

“Sha’n’t! I ain’t doing nothing to you.”

Crack! went the whip again, and I saw Shock bend down.

“I’m a-cutting the cart rope,” he shouted.

“Come down.” Crack! went the whip.

Shock did not speak.

“Will he cut the rope?” I whispered.

“If he do we shall be two hours loading up again, and a lot o’ things smashed,” growled Ike. Then aloud:

“Are you a coming down? Get down and go home.”

“Sha’n’t!” came from above us; and, like a good general, Ike accepted his defeat, and climbed back to his place on the left shaft, while I took mine on the right.

“It’s no good,” he said in a low grumbling tone. “When he says he won’t, he won’t, and them ropes is the noo ’uns. He’ll have to go on with us now; and I’m blest if I don’t think we’ve lost a good ten minutes over him and his noise.”

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover,” came from over our heads.

“Think o’ me letting that scare me!” said Ike, giving his whip a vicious whisk through the air.

“But it seemed so strange,” I said.

“Ay, it did. Look yonder,” he said. “That’s the norrard. It looks light, don’t it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Ah! it never gets no darker than that all night. You’ll see that get more round to the nor-east as we gets nigher to London.”

So it proved, for by degrees I saw the stars in the north-east pale; and by the time we reached Hyde Park Corner a man was busy with a light ladder putting out the lamps, and it seemed all so strange that it should be broad daylight, while, as we jolted over the paving-stones as we went farther, the light had got well round now to the east, and the daylight affected Ike, for as, after a long silence, we suddenly heard once more from the top of the baskets:

“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover!”

Ike took up the old song, and in a rough, but not unmusical voice roared out the second line:

“I’ve been a-travelling all the world over.”

Or, as he gave it to match Do-ho-ver—“O-ho-ver.” And it seemed to me that I had become a great traveller, for that was London all before me, with a long golden line above it in the sky.

Chapter Fifteen.

In the Market.

I could almost have fancied that there was some truth in Ike’s declaration about old Basket or Bonyparty, as he called him, for certainly he seemed to quicken his pace as we drew nearer; and so it was that, as we turned into the busy market, and the horse made its way to one particular spot at the south-east corner, Ike triumphantly pointed to the church clock we had just passed.

“What did I tell yer?” he exclaimed with a grim smile of satisfaction on his countenance; “he picked up them lost ten minutes, and here we are—just four.”

What a scene it seemed to me. The whole place packed with laden cart, wagon, and light van. Noise, confusion, and shouting, pleasant smells and evil smells—flowers and crushed cabbage; here it was peas and mint, there it was strawberries; then a whole wagon announced through the sides of its piled-up baskets that the load was cauliflowers.

For a time I could do nothing but gape and stare around at the bustling crowd and the number of men busily carrying great baskets on the top of porters’ knots. Women, too, in caps, ready to put the same great pad round forehead and make it rest upon their shoulders, and bear off great boxes of fruit or baskets of vegetable.

Here I saw a complete stack of bushel baskets being regularly built up from the unloading of a wagon, to know by the scent they were early peas; a little farther on, some men seemed to be making a bastion for the defence of the market by means of gabions, which, to add to the fancy, were not filled with sand, but with large round gravel of a pale whitish-yellow, only a closer inspection showed that the contents were new potatoes.

The strawberries took my attention, though, most, for I felt quite a feeling of sorrow for Old Brownsmith as I saw what seemed to me to be such a glut of the rich red fruit that I was sure those which we had brought up would not sell.

How delicious they smelt in the old-fashioned pottles which we never see now—long narrow cones, with a cross-handle, over which, when filled, or supposed to be filled, for a big strawberry would block up the narrow part of the cone at times, a few leaves were placed, and then a piece of white paper was tied over with a bit of bast. Nowadays deep and shallow punnets are the order of the day, and a good thing too.

Flowers! There seemed to me enough to last London for a month; and I was going, after a look round, to tell Ike that I was afraid we should have to take our load back, when I felt a heavy thump on the back of my head, which knocked off my cap.

Nothing annoyed me more as a boy than for my cap to be knocked off. Shock knew that, and it had been one of his favourite tricks, so that I knew, as I thought, whence this piece of annoyance had come, and, picking up the small hard cabbage that had been thrown, I determined to avenge myself by sending it back with a good aim.

True enough there was Master Shock, lying flat on his chest with his chin resting in his hands, and his feet kicking up behind, now going up and down, now patting together, for he had taken off his boots.

Shock was having a good stare over the market from his elevated position on the top of the baskets; and, taking a good aim as I thought, I threw the little hard stale cabbage, and then dodged round the side of the cart. I stood aghast directly after, beside a pile of baskets, and watch a quarrel that had just begun a dozen yards away, where a big red-faced man was holding a very fluffy white hat in his hand and brushing it with his arm, and bandying angry words with a rough-looking young market porter, who, with a great flat basket under one arm and his other through a knot, was speaking menacingly—

“Don’t you hit me again.”

“Yes, I will, and knock your ugly head off if you do that again,” said the man with the white hat.

“Do what again?”

“Do what again!—why, throw rotten cabbages at my hat.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why, half-a-dozen here saw you do it. You’ve got hold of the wrong man, my lad, for larks; so now, then!”

I saw him stick on his white hat all on one side, and he looked very fierce and severe; while I felt covered with shame and confusion, for I knew that it was my cabbage that had done the mischief.

Whop!

That was another right in my ear, and I turned angrily upon Shock, forgetting all about the man with the white hat and the half-conceived idea of going up to him and telling the truth. But there was Shock staring about him from a dozen feet above my head, and singing softly, “I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover;” and the cabbage had struck me on the other side, so that unless Shock had learned how to project decayed cabbage after the fashion of boomerangs it could not have been he.

There was a group of bare-legged boys, though, away to my left—a set of ragged objects who might have passed for Shock’s brothers and cousins, only that they were thin and unwholesomely pale, and extremely dirty, while although Shock was often quite as dirty, his seemed to be the wholesome dirt of country earth, and he looked brown, and healthy, and strong.

Then I became aware of the presence of Ike, who said with a grim smile:

“Don’t you heed them, my lad. I see one of ’em chuck it and then turn round. Wait a bit and I shall get a charnce, and I’ll drar my whip round one of ’em in a way as’ll be a startler.”

A quick busy-looking man came bustling up just then, had a chat with Ike, and hurried off, carrying away my companion; and as soon as he had gone a bruised potato struck the side of the cart, and as I changed my position a damaged stump of a cauliflower struck Basket on the flank, making him start and give himself a shake that rattled all the chains of the harness before resettling down to the task of picking the corn out of the chaff in his well-filled nose-bag.

My first idea was to call Shock down from where he was see-sawing his legs to and fro till his feet looked like two tilt-hammers beating a piece of iron, and then with his help attack the young vagabonds who were amusing themselves by making me a target for all the market refuse they could find.

Second thoughts are said to be best, and I had sense enough to know that nothing would be gained by a struggle with the young roughs. So, gaining knowledge from my previous experience, I changed my position so as to get in the front of some sturdy-looking men who were all standing with their hands in their pockets chinking their money. I had yet to learn that they were costermongers waiting for prices to come down.

Directly after whiz! came something close by my head and struck one of the men in the face, with the result that he made a dash at the boys, who darted away in and out among the baskets, whooping and yelling defiance; but one ran right into the arms of a man in uniform, who gave him three or four sharp cuts with a cane and sent him howling away.

This episode was hardly over before Ike was back, and he nodded as he said:

“He’s coming direckly to sell us off.”

“Shall you be able to sell the things, then, this morning?”

“Sell ’em! I should just think we shall; well too. There’s precious little in the market to-day.”

“Little!” I exclaimed. “Why, I thought there would be too much for ours to be wanted.”

“Bless your young innocence! this is nothing. Bad times for the costers, my boy; they’ll get nothing cheap. Here you, Shock, as you are come, help with these here ropes; and mind, you two, you look after these new ropes and the sacks.”

“Look after them!” I said innocently.

“Yes,” said Ike with a queer look; “they gets wild and into bad habits in London—walks away, they does—and when you go and look for ’em, there you finds ’em in marine store-shops in the dirty alleys.”

Shock and I set to work helping to unfasten the ropes, which were laced in and out of the basket-handles, and through the iron stays, and beneath the hooks placed on purpose about the cart, after which the ropes were made into neat bunches by Ike, who passed them from hand to elbow over and over and tied them in the middle, and then in a row to the ladder of the cart.

The baskets were just set free when the busy-looking man came back along with a tall red-nosed fellow. I noticed his red nose because it was the same colour as a book he held, whose leather cover was like a bad strawberry. He had a little ink-bottle hanging at his buttonhole and a pen in his mouth, and was followed by quite a crowd of keen-looking men.

“Now, Jacob,” said the little man, and clapping his hand upon the thin man’s shoulder he stepped up on to the top of a pile of barge-baskets, whose lids were tied down with tarred string over the cauliflowers with which they were gorged.

Then, as I stared at him, he put his hands on either side of his mouth and seemed to go mad with satisfaction, dancing his body up and down and slowly turning round as he yelled out:

“Strawby’s! strawby’s! strawby’s!” over and over again.

I looked up at Ike, whose face was as if cut out of mahogany, it was so solid; then I looked round at the people, but there wasn’t a smile. Nobody laughed but Shock, who grinned silently till he saw me watching him, and then he looked sulky and turned his back.

Just then Ike, who seemed as solemn as a judge, climbed up the wheel and on to the cart with another man following him; and as the crowd increased about our cart I realised that everything was being sold by auction, for the busy man kept shouting prices quickly higher and higher, and then giving a tap with a pencil on a basket, entering something in a memorandum-book, while his red-nosed clerk did the same.

I stared to see how quickly it was all done, Ike and the strange man handing down the baskets, which were seized and carried away by porters to carts standing at a distance; and I wondered how they would ever find out afterwards who had taken them, and get the money paid.

But Ike seemed to be quite satisfied as he trampled about over the baskets, which were handed rapidly down till from being high up he was getting low down, before the busy-looking man began to shout what sounded to me like, “Flow—wow—wow—wow!” as if he were trying to imitate barking like a dog.

Half the crowd went away now, but a fresh lot of men came up, and first of all baskets full of flowers were sold, then half-baskets, then so many bunches, as fast as could be.

Again I found myself wondering how the money would be obtained, and I thought that Old Brownsmith would be sure to be cheated; but Ike looked quite easy, and instead of there being so many things in the market that ours would not sell, I found that the men around bought them up eagerly, and the baskets grew less in number than ever.

I glanced round once or twice on that busy summer morning, to see the street as far as I could grasp packed with carts, and to these a regular throng of men were carrying baskets, while every here and there barrows were being piled up with flowers.

All about us too, as far as I could see by climbing up to the ladder over Basket’s back, men were shouting away as they sold the contents of other carts, whose baskets were being handed down to the hungry crowds, who were pushing and struggling and making way for the porters with the heavy baskets on their heads.

By degrees I began to understand that all this enormous quantity of garden produce was being bought up by the greengrocers and barrow-dealers from all over London, and that they would soon be driving off east, west, north, and south, to their shops and places of business.

I should have liked to sit perched up there and watching all that went on, but I had to move to let Ike drag back the baskets; then I had to help handing out bunches, till at last the crowd melted away, and the busy man closed his book with a snap.

“Very good this morning,” he shouted to Ike; and then climbing down he went off with his red-nosed clerk, and the people who were about followed him.

“Getting warm, mate?” said Ike, grinning at me.

“Yes,” I said; “the sun’s so hot, and there’s no wind here.”

“No, my lad; they builds houses to shut it out. Soon be done now. You and Shock get down and hand up them baskets.”

He pointed to a pile that some men had been making, and these I found all had “Brownsmith, Isleworth,” painted upon them, and it dawned upon me now that those which had been carried away would not be returned till next journey.

“That’s it,” said Ike. “Market-gardeners has to give a lot o’ trust that way.”

“But do they get the baskets all back again, Ike?” I said.

“To be sure they do, my lad—Oh yes, pretty well.”

“But shall we get paid the money for all that’s been sold this morning?”

“Why, of course, my lad. That gentleman as sold for us, he’s our salesman; and he pays for it all, and they pay him. Don’t you see?”

I said “Yes,” but my mind was not very clear about it.

“We’re all right there. Work away, Shock, and let’s finish loading up, and then we’ll have our breakfast. Nice sort o’ looking party you are, to take anywhere to feed,” he grumbled, as he glanced at Shock, whose appearance was certainly not much in his favour.

It was much easier work loading with empty baskets, and besides there was not a full load, so that it was not very long before Ike had them all piled up to his satisfaction and the ropes undone and thrown over and over and laced in and out and hooked and tied and strained to the sides of the cart.

“That’s the way we does it, squire,” cried Ike; “haul away, Shock, my lad. You’ve worked well. Old Bonyparty’s had the best of it; this is his rest and feeding time. You might leave him there hours; but as soon as it’s time to go home, away he starts, and there’s no stopping him.

“That’s about it,” he said, as he fastened off a rope. “That’ll do. We sha’n’t want no more for this lot. Now don’t you two leave the cart. I’m going up to Mr Blackton, our salesman, you know, just to see if he’s anything to say, and then we’ll go and have our braxfass. Don’t you chaps leave the cart.”

“I sha’n’t go,” I said, and I glanced at Shock, who climbed up to the top of the baskets, and lay down flat on his face, so as to be away from me as it seemed, but I could see him watching me out of one eye from time to time.

“I wonder whether he will ever be different,” I thought to myself, as I watched the selling of a huge load of beautifully white bunches of turnips, as regular and clean as could be, when all at once I felt a blow in my back, and looking sharply round, there were several of the ragged boys who haunted the market grinning at me.

There was no handy place for me to post myself again so as to stop the throwing, and I had to content myself with looking at them angrily; but that did no good, for they separated, getting behind baskets and stacks of baskets, like so many sharpshooters, and from thence laid siege to me, firing shots with bits of market refuse, and anything they could find.

I generally managed to dodge the missiles, but the boys were clever enough to hit me several times, and with my blood boiling, and fingers tingling to pull their ears or punch their dirty heads, I had to stand fast and bear it all.

Barelegged, barefooted, and as active as cats, I felt sure that if I chased one he would dodge in and out and escape me, and as to throwing back at them, I was not going to stoop to do that.

“Dirty young vagabonds!” I said to myself, and I looked at them contemptuously with as much effect as if I had directed my severe looks at a market basket; and then I went and leaned against the end of the cart, determined to take no notice of them, and wishing that Ike would come back.

The young rascals only grew more impudent though, and came nearer, two in particular, and one of them, quite a little fellow with a big head and two small dark shiny eyes, over which his shock head of hair kept falling, ran right in, making charges at me, and striking at me with a muddy little fist, while his companion made pokes with a stick.

This was getting beyond bearing, for I was not a wild beast in a cage unable to get away; but still I determined not to be led into any disgraceful struggle with the dirty little blackguards.