Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.Shock’s Breakfast.I lay as if fascinated for a minute or two, staring, and he stared at me. Then without further hesitation I leaped out of bed and indignantly rushed to the window, but only on opening it to find him gone.There was no mistake about it though, for the trellis was still quivering, and as I looked out it seemed to me that he must have dropped part of the way and darted round the house.It was very early, but the sun was shining brightly over the dew-wet trees and plants, and a fresh, delicious scent came in at the open window. My headache and giddiness had gone, taking with them my low-spirited feeling, and dressing quickly I thought I would have a run round the garden and a look at Shock before Old Brownsmith came down.“I wonder where Shock sleeps and lives,” I said to myself as I walked round peering about the place, finding the cart gone, for I had not heard the opening gate, and crushing and bumping of the wheels as it went out at midnight.The great sheds and pits seemed to be empty, and as I went down one of the long paths the garden was quite deserted, the men and women not having come.“They must be late,” I thought, when I heard the old clock at Isleworth Church begin to strike, and listening I counted five.It was an hour earlier than I thought for, and turning down a path to the left I walked towards a sort of toolshed right in the centre of the garden, and, to my surprise, saw that the little roughly-built chimney in one corner of the building was sending out a column of pale-blue smoke.“I wonder who has lit a fire so early!” I said to myself, and walking slowly on I expected to see one of the garden women boiling her kettle and getting ready for her breakfast—some of the work-people I knew having their meals in the sheds.I stopped short as I reached the door, for before a fire of wood and rubbish burnt down into embers, and sending out a pretty good heat, there knelt Shock; and as I had approached quietly he had not heard me.I stared with wonder at him, and soon my wonder turned into disgust, for what he was doing seemed to be so cruel.The fire was burning on a big slab of stone, and the embers being swept away from one part the boy had there about a score of large garden snails, which he was pushing on to the hot stone, where they hissed and sent out a lot of foam and steam. Then he changed them about with a bit of stick into hotter or cooler parts, and all with his back half-turned to me.“The nasty, cruel brute!” I said to myself, for it seemed as if he were doing this out of wantonness, and I was blaming myself for not interfering to save the poor things from their painful death, when a thought flashed across my mind, and I stood there silently watching him.I had not long to watch for proof.Taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, Shock opened it, and I saw what it contained. Then taking a monstrous pin from out of the edge of his jacket, he picked up one of the snails with his left hand, used the pin cleverly, and dragged out one of the creatures from its shell, reduced to about half its original size, blew it, dipped it in the paper of salt, and, to my horror and disgust, ate it.Before I had recovered from my surprise he had eaten another and another, and he was busy over the sixth when an ejaculation I uttered made him turn and see me.He stared at me, pin in one hand, snail-shell in the other, for a moment in mute astonishment; then, turning more away from me, he went on with his repast, and began insultingly to throw the shells at me over his head.I bore it all for a few minutes in silence; then, feeling qualmish at the half-savage boy’s meal, I caught one of the shells as it came, and tossed it back with such good aim that it hit him a smart rap on the head.He turned sharply round with a vicious look, and seemed as if about to fly at me.“What are you doing?” I cried.He had never spoken to me before, and he seemed to hesitate now, staring at me as if reluctant to use his tongue, but he did speak in a quick angry way.“Eatin’; can’t you see?”I had questioned him, but I was quite as much surprised at hearing an answer, as at the repast of which he was partaking.I stared hard at him, and he gave me a sidelong look, after which he gave three or four of the snails a thrust with a bit of stick to where they would cook better, took up another, and wriggled it out with the pin.I was disgusted and half nauseated, but I could not help noticing that the cooked snail did not smell badly, and that instead of being the wet, foaming, slimy thing I was accustomed to see, it looked dried up and firm.At last, with a horrified look at the young savage, I exclaimed:“Do you know those are snails?”“Yes. Have one?”He answered quite sharply, and I took a step back, for I had not had my breakfast. I was rather disposed to be faint from the effects of my last night’s accident, and the sight of what was going on made me ready to flee, for all at once, after letting his dirty fingers hover for a few moments over the hot stone, he picked up the largest snail, blew it as he threw it from hand to hand because it was hot, and ended by holding it out to me with:“Got a big pin?”I shrank away from him with my lip curling, and I uttered a peculiar “Ugh!”“All right!” he said gruffly. “They’re stunning.”To prove his assertion he went on eating rapidly without paying any further heed to me, throwing the shells over his head, and ending by screwing the paper up tightly that contained the salt.Then he sprang up and faced me; took two or three steps in my direction, and made a spring as if to jump right on to me.Naturally enough I gave way, and he darted out of the shed and dashed down between two rows of trees, to be out of sight directly, for I did not give chase.“He can talk,” I said to myself as I went on down the garden thinking of the snails, and that Shock was something like the wild boy of whom I had once read.But soon the various objects in the great garden made me forget Shock, for the men were at work, hoeing, digging, and planting, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and to think that Old Brownsmith would be annoyed if he found me idle, when he came down one of the walks, followed by his cats, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.“Better?” he said abruptly. “That’s right. What you’re to do? Oh wait a bit, we’ll see! Get used to the place first.”He gave me a short nod, and began pointing out different tasks that he wished his men to carry out, while I watched attentively, feeling as if I should like to run off and look at the ripening fruit, but not caring to go away, for fear Mr Brownsmith might want me.One thing was quite evident, and that was that the cats were disposed to be very friendly. They did not take any notice of the men, but one after the other came and had a rub up against my leg, purring softly, and looking up at me with their slits of eyes closed up in the bright sunshine, till all at once Old Brownsmith laid his hand upon my shoulder again, and said one word:“Breakfast!”I walked with him up to the house, and noticed that instead of following us in, the cats ran up a flight of steps into a narrow loft which seemed to be their home, two of them seating themselves at once in the doorway to blink at the sunshine.“Like cats?” said the old gentleman.“Oh yes!” I said.“Ah! I see you’ve made friends.”“Yes, I replied; but I haven’t made friends with that boy Shock.”“Well, that does not matter,” said Old Brownsmith. “Come, sit down; bread and milk morning.”I sat down opposite to him, to find that a big basin of bread and milk stood before each of us, and at which, after a short grace, Old Brownsmith at once began.I hesitated for a moment, feeling a little awkward and strange, but I was soon after as busy as he.“Not going to be ill, I see,” he said suddenly. “You must be on the look-out another time. Accident—Ike didn’t mean it.”I was going to say I was sure of that, when he went on:“So you haven’t made friends with Shock?”“No, sir.”“Well, don’t.”“I will not if you don’t wish it, sir,” I said eagerly.“Be kind to him, and keep him in his place. Hasn’t been rough to you, has he?”“Oh no!” I said. “He only seems disposed to play tricks.”“Yes, like a monkey. Rum fellow, isn’t he?”“Yes, sir. He isn’t—”“Bit of an idiot, eh? Oh no! he’s sharp enough. I let him do as he likes for the present. Awkward boy to manage.”“Is he, sir?”“Yes, my lad. Ike found him under the horses’ hoofs one night, going up to market. Little fellow had crawled out into the road. Left in the ditch by some one or another. Ike put him in a half-sieve basket with some hay, and fixed him in with some sticks same as we cover fruit, and he curled up and went to sleep till Ike brought him in to me in the yard.”“But where were his father and mother?” I cried.“Who knows!” said Old Brownsmith, poking at a bit of brown crust in his basin of milk. “Ike brought him to me grinning, and he said, ‘Here’s another cat for you, master.’“I was very angry,” said the old gentleman after a pause; “but just then the little fellow—he was about a year old—put his head up through the wooden bars and looked at me, and I told one of the women to give him something to eat. After that I sent him to the workhouse, where they took care of him, and one day when he got bigger I gave him a treat, and had him here for a day’s holiday. Then after a twelvemonth, I gave him another holiday, and I should have given him two a year, only he was such a young rascal. The workhouse master said he could do nothing with him. He couldn’t make him learn anything—even his letters. The only thing he would do well was work in the garden.”“Same as he does now, sir?” I said, for I was deeply interested.“Same as he does now,” assented Old Brownsmith. “Then one day after I had given him his treat, I suppose when he was about ten years old, I found him in the garden. He had run away from the workhouse school.”“And did he stay here, sir?”“No, I sent him back, Grant, and he ran away again. I sent him back once more, but he came back; and at last I got to be tired of it, for the more I sent him back the more he came.”The old gentleman chuckled and finished his bread and milk, while I waited to hear more.“I say I got tired of it at last, for I knew they flogged and locked up the boy, and kept him on bread and water; but it did him no good; he would run away. He used to come here, through the gate if it was open, over the wall when it was shut, and he never said a word, only hung about like a dog.“I talked to him, coaxed him, and told him that if he would be a good lad, and learn, I would have him to work some day, and he stared at me just as if he were some dumb animal, and when I had done and sent him off, what do you think happened, Grant?”“He came back again, sir.”“Yes: came back again as soon as he could get away, and at last, being a very foolish sort of old man, I let him stop, and he has been here ever since.”“And never goes to school?”“Never, Grant, I tried to send him, but I could only get him there by blows, and I gave that up. I don’t like beating boys.”I felt a curious shiver run through me as he said this, and I saw him smile, but he made no allusion to me, and went on talking about Shock.“Then I tried making a decent boy of him, giving him clothes, had a bed put for him in the attic, and his meals provided for him here in the kitchen.”“And wasn’t he glad?” I said.“Perhaps he was,” said Old Brownsmith, quietly, “but he didn’t show it, for I couldn’t get him to sleep in the bed, and he would not sit down to his meals in the kitchen; so at last I grew tired, and took to paying him wages, and made arrangements for one of the women who comes to work, to find him a lodging, and he goes there to sleep sometimes.”I noticed that he saidsometimes, in a peculiar manner, looking at me the while. Then he went on:“I’ve tried several times since, Grant, my lad, but the young savage is apparently irreclaimable. Perhaps when he gets older something may be done.”“I hope so,” I said. “It seems so dreadful to see a boy so—”“So dirty and lost, as the north-country people call it, boy. Ah, well, let him have his way for a bit, and we’ll see by and by! You say he has not annoyed you?”“No, no,” I said; “I don’t think he likes me though.”“That does not matter,” said the old gentleman, rising. “There, now, I’m going to shave.”I looked at him in wonder, as he took a tin pot from out of a cupboard, and brought forth his razors, soap, and brush.“Give me that looking-glass that hangs on the wall, my lad; that’s it.”I fetched the glass from the nail on which it hung, and then he set it upright, propped by a little support behind, and then I sat still as he placed his razor in boiling water, soaped his chin all round, and scraped it well, removing the grey stubble, and leaving it perfectly clean.It seemed to me a curious thing to do on a breakfast-table, but it was the old man’s custom, and it was not likely that he would change his habits for me.“There,” he said smiling, “that’s a job you won’t want to do just yet awhile. Now hang up the glass, and you can go out in the garden. I shall be there by and by. Head hurt you?”“Oh no, sir!” I said.“Shoulder?”“Only a little stiff, sir.”Then I don’t think we need have the doctor any more.I laughed, for the idea seemed ridiculous.“Well, then, we won’t waste his time. Put on your hat and go and see him. You know where he lives?”I said that I did; and I went up to his house, saw him, and he sent me away again, patting me on the shoulder that was not stiff.“Yes, you’re all right,” he said. “Now take care and don’t get into my clutches again.”

I lay as if fascinated for a minute or two, staring, and he stared at me. Then without further hesitation I leaped out of bed and indignantly rushed to the window, but only on opening it to find him gone.

There was no mistake about it though, for the trellis was still quivering, and as I looked out it seemed to me that he must have dropped part of the way and darted round the house.

It was very early, but the sun was shining brightly over the dew-wet trees and plants, and a fresh, delicious scent came in at the open window. My headache and giddiness had gone, taking with them my low-spirited feeling, and dressing quickly I thought I would have a run round the garden and a look at Shock before Old Brownsmith came down.

“I wonder where Shock sleeps and lives,” I said to myself as I walked round peering about the place, finding the cart gone, for I had not heard the opening gate, and crushing and bumping of the wheels as it went out at midnight.

The great sheds and pits seemed to be empty, and as I went down one of the long paths the garden was quite deserted, the men and women not having come.

“They must be late,” I thought, when I heard the old clock at Isleworth Church begin to strike, and listening I counted five.

It was an hour earlier than I thought for, and turning down a path to the left I walked towards a sort of toolshed right in the centre of the garden, and, to my surprise, saw that the little roughly-built chimney in one corner of the building was sending out a column of pale-blue smoke.

“I wonder who has lit a fire so early!” I said to myself, and walking slowly on I expected to see one of the garden women boiling her kettle and getting ready for her breakfast—some of the work-people I knew having their meals in the sheds.

I stopped short as I reached the door, for before a fire of wood and rubbish burnt down into embers, and sending out a pretty good heat, there knelt Shock; and as I had approached quietly he had not heard me.

I stared with wonder at him, and soon my wonder turned into disgust, for what he was doing seemed to be so cruel.

The fire was burning on a big slab of stone, and the embers being swept away from one part the boy had there about a score of large garden snails, which he was pushing on to the hot stone, where they hissed and sent out a lot of foam and steam. Then he changed them about with a bit of stick into hotter or cooler parts, and all with his back half-turned to me.

“The nasty, cruel brute!” I said to myself, for it seemed as if he were doing this out of wantonness, and I was blaming myself for not interfering to save the poor things from their painful death, when a thought flashed across my mind, and I stood there silently watching him.

I had not long to watch for proof.

Taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, Shock opened it, and I saw what it contained. Then taking a monstrous pin from out of the edge of his jacket, he picked up one of the snails with his left hand, used the pin cleverly, and dragged out one of the creatures from its shell, reduced to about half its original size, blew it, dipped it in the paper of salt, and, to my horror and disgust, ate it.

Before I had recovered from my surprise he had eaten another and another, and he was busy over the sixth when an ejaculation I uttered made him turn and see me.

He stared at me, pin in one hand, snail-shell in the other, for a moment in mute astonishment; then, turning more away from me, he went on with his repast, and began insultingly to throw the shells at me over his head.

I bore it all for a few minutes in silence; then, feeling qualmish at the half-savage boy’s meal, I caught one of the shells as it came, and tossed it back with such good aim that it hit him a smart rap on the head.

He turned sharply round with a vicious look, and seemed as if about to fly at me.

“What are you doing?” I cried.

He had never spoken to me before, and he seemed to hesitate now, staring at me as if reluctant to use his tongue, but he did speak in a quick angry way.

“Eatin’; can’t you see?”

I had questioned him, but I was quite as much surprised at hearing an answer, as at the repast of which he was partaking.

I stared hard at him, and he gave me a sidelong look, after which he gave three or four of the snails a thrust with a bit of stick to where they would cook better, took up another, and wriggled it out with the pin.

I was disgusted and half nauseated, but I could not help noticing that the cooked snail did not smell badly, and that instead of being the wet, foaming, slimy thing I was accustomed to see, it looked dried up and firm.

At last, with a horrified look at the young savage, I exclaimed:

“Do you know those are snails?”

“Yes. Have one?”

He answered quite sharply, and I took a step back, for I had not had my breakfast. I was rather disposed to be faint from the effects of my last night’s accident, and the sight of what was going on made me ready to flee, for all at once, after letting his dirty fingers hover for a few moments over the hot stone, he picked up the largest snail, blew it as he threw it from hand to hand because it was hot, and ended by holding it out to me with:

“Got a big pin?”

I shrank away from him with my lip curling, and I uttered a peculiar “Ugh!”

“All right!” he said gruffly. “They’re stunning.”

To prove his assertion he went on eating rapidly without paying any further heed to me, throwing the shells over his head, and ending by screwing the paper up tightly that contained the salt.

Then he sprang up and faced me; took two or three steps in my direction, and made a spring as if to jump right on to me.

Naturally enough I gave way, and he darted out of the shed and dashed down between two rows of trees, to be out of sight directly, for I did not give chase.

“He can talk,” I said to myself as I went on down the garden thinking of the snails, and that Shock was something like the wild boy of whom I had once read.

But soon the various objects in the great garden made me forget Shock, for the men were at work, hoeing, digging, and planting, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and to think that Old Brownsmith would be annoyed if he found me idle, when he came down one of the walks, followed by his cats, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“Better?” he said abruptly. “That’s right. What you’re to do? Oh wait a bit, we’ll see! Get used to the place first.”

He gave me a short nod, and began pointing out different tasks that he wished his men to carry out, while I watched attentively, feeling as if I should like to run off and look at the ripening fruit, but not caring to go away, for fear Mr Brownsmith might want me.

One thing was quite evident, and that was that the cats were disposed to be very friendly. They did not take any notice of the men, but one after the other came and had a rub up against my leg, purring softly, and looking up at me with their slits of eyes closed up in the bright sunshine, till all at once Old Brownsmith laid his hand upon my shoulder again, and said one word:

“Breakfast!”

I walked with him up to the house, and noticed that instead of following us in, the cats ran up a flight of steps into a narrow loft which seemed to be their home, two of them seating themselves at once in the doorway to blink at the sunshine.

“Like cats?” said the old gentleman.

“Oh yes!” I said.

“Ah! I see you’ve made friends.”

“Yes, I replied; but I haven’t made friends with that boy Shock.”

“Well, that does not matter,” said Old Brownsmith. “Come, sit down; bread and milk morning.”

I sat down opposite to him, to find that a big basin of bread and milk stood before each of us, and at which, after a short grace, Old Brownsmith at once began.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling a little awkward and strange, but I was soon after as busy as he.

“Not going to be ill, I see,” he said suddenly. “You must be on the look-out another time. Accident—Ike didn’t mean it.”

I was going to say I was sure of that, when he went on:

“So you haven’t made friends with Shock?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, don’t.”

“I will not if you don’t wish it, sir,” I said eagerly.

“Be kind to him, and keep him in his place. Hasn’t been rough to you, has he?”

“Oh no!” I said. “He only seems disposed to play tricks.”

“Yes, like a monkey. Rum fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He isn’t—”

“Bit of an idiot, eh? Oh no! he’s sharp enough. I let him do as he likes for the present. Awkward boy to manage.”

“Is he, sir?”

“Yes, my lad. Ike found him under the horses’ hoofs one night, going up to market. Little fellow had crawled out into the road. Left in the ditch by some one or another. Ike put him in a half-sieve basket with some hay, and fixed him in with some sticks same as we cover fruit, and he curled up and went to sleep till Ike brought him in to me in the yard.”

“But where were his father and mother?” I cried.

“Who knows!” said Old Brownsmith, poking at a bit of brown crust in his basin of milk. “Ike brought him to me grinning, and he said, ‘Here’s another cat for you, master.’

“I was very angry,” said the old gentleman after a pause; “but just then the little fellow—he was about a year old—put his head up through the wooden bars and looked at me, and I told one of the women to give him something to eat. After that I sent him to the workhouse, where they took care of him, and one day when he got bigger I gave him a treat, and had him here for a day’s holiday. Then after a twelvemonth, I gave him another holiday, and I should have given him two a year, only he was such a young rascal. The workhouse master said he could do nothing with him. He couldn’t make him learn anything—even his letters. The only thing he would do well was work in the garden.”

“Same as he does now, sir?” I said, for I was deeply interested.

“Same as he does now,” assented Old Brownsmith. “Then one day after I had given him his treat, I suppose when he was about ten years old, I found him in the garden. He had run away from the workhouse school.”

“And did he stay here, sir?”

“No, I sent him back, Grant, and he ran away again. I sent him back once more, but he came back; and at last I got to be tired of it, for the more I sent him back the more he came.”

The old gentleman chuckled and finished his bread and milk, while I waited to hear more.

“I say I got tired of it at last, for I knew they flogged and locked up the boy, and kept him on bread and water; but it did him no good; he would run away. He used to come here, through the gate if it was open, over the wall when it was shut, and he never said a word, only hung about like a dog.

“I talked to him, coaxed him, and told him that if he would be a good lad, and learn, I would have him to work some day, and he stared at me just as if he were some dumb animal, and when I had done and sent him off, what do you think happened, Grant?”

“He came back again, sir.”

“Yes: came back again as soon as he could get away, and at last, being a very foolish sort of old man, I let him stop, and he has been here ever since.”

“And never goes to school?”

“Never, Grant, I tried to send him, but I could only get him there by blows, and I gave that up. I don’t like beating boys.”

I felt a curious shiver run through me as he said this, and I saw him smile, but he made no allusion to me, and went on talking about Shock.

“Then I tried making a decent boy of him, giving him clothes, had a bed put for him in the attic, and his meals provided for him here in the kitchen.”

“And wasn’t he glad?” I said.

“Perhaps he was,” said Old Brownsmith, quietly, “but he didn’t show it, for I couldn’t get him to sleep in the bed, and he would not sit down to his meals in the kitchen; so at last I grew tired, and took to paying him wages, and made arrangements for one of the women who comes to work, to find him a lodging, and he goes there to sleep sometimes.”

I noticed that he saidsometimes, in a peculiar manner, looking at me the while. Then he went on:

“I’ve tried several times since, Grant, my lad, but the young savage is apparently irreclaimable. Perhaps when he gets older something may be done.”

“I hope so,” I said. “It seems so dreadful to see a boy so—”

“So dirty and lost, as the north-country people call it, boy. Ah, well, let him have his way for a bit, and we’ll see by and by! You say he has not annoyed you?”

“No, no,” I said; “I don’t think he likes me though.”

“That does not matter,” said the old gentleman, rising. “There, now, I’m going to shave.”

I looked at him in wonder, as he took a tin pot from out of a cupboard, and brought forth his razors, soap, and brush.

“Give me that looking-glass that hangs on the wall, my lad; that’s it.”

I fetched the glass from the nail on which it hung, and then he set it upright, propped by a little support behind, and then I sat still as he placed his razor in boiling water, soaped his chin all round, and scraped it well, removing the grey stubble, and leaving it perfectly clean.

It seemed to me a curious thing to do on a breakfast-table, but it was the old man’s custom, and it was not likely that he would change his habits for me.

“There,” he said smiling, “that’s a job you won’t want to do just yet awhile. Now hang up the glass, and you can go out in the garden. I shall be there by and by. Head hurt you?”

“Oh no, sir!” I said.

“Shoulder?”

“Only a little stiff, sir.”

Then I don’t think we need have the doctor any more.

I laughed, for the idea seemed ridiculous.

“Well, then, we won’t waste his time. Put on your hat and go and see him. You know where he lives?”

I said that I did; and I went up to his house, saw him, and he sent me away again, patting me on the shoulder that was not stiff.

“Yes, you’re all right,” he said. “Now take care and don’t get into my clutches again.”

Chapter Nine.Gathering Pippins.I did not understand it at the time, but that accident made me a very excellent friend in the shape of Ike, the big ugly carter and packer, for after his fashion he took me regularly under his wing, and watched over me during the time I was at Old Brownsmith’s.I’m obliged to stop again over that way of speaking of the market-gardener, but whenever I write “Mr Brownsmith,” or “the old gentleman,” it does not seem natural. Old Brownsmith it always was, and I should not have been surprised to have seen his letters come by the postman directedOld Brownsmith.Ike used to look quite pleasant when I was busy near him, and while he taught me all he knew, nothing pleased him better than for me to call him from his digging, or hoeing, or planting, to move a ladder, or lift a basket, or perform some other act that was beyond my strength.All the same, though, he had a way of not showing it.I had been at the garden about a week when Old Brownsmith began talking about picking some of his pippins to send to market.“I hear they are making a good price,” he said, “and I shall try a few sieves to-morrow morning, Grant.”“Yes, sir,” I said, for the sound of apple-picking was pleasant.“I suppose if I were to send you up one of the apple trees with a basket, you would throw yourself out and break one of your limbs.”“Oh no, sir!” I said. “I could climb one of the trees and pick the apples without doing that.”“Thank you,” he replied; “that’s not the way to pick my apples. Why, don’t you know that the fruit does not grow in the middle of a tree, but round the outside, where the sun and wind can get at the blossom?”“I didn’t know it,” I said rather ruefully. “I seem to be very ignorant. I wish I had been more to school.”“They wouldn’t have taught you that at school, my lad,” he said smiling. “Why, of course you did not know it. I didn’t know such things when I was your age. Look here. You must have a ladder put for you against a tree, and take a basket with a hook to the handle. There, I’ll show you; but you are sure you will not tumble?”“I’ll take care, sir,” I said. “I’ll be very careful.”It was a sunny morning, and leading the way, Old Brownsmith went out to where Ike was busy putting in plants with a dibber, striding over a stretched-out line, making holes, thrusting in one of the plants he held in his left hand, and with one thrust or two of the dibber surrounding it with the soft moist earth.He raised himself unwillingly, and went off to obey orders; one of the work-women was sent to fetch some flat sieves; while from one of the sheds I brought a couple of deep cross-handled baskets to each of which a wooden hook was attached.By the time we had walked to where the king-pippin trees stood with their tall straight branches, Ike was before us with a ladder, with the lower rounds made of great length, so as to give width to the bottom.I had noticed this before when I had seen the ladders hanging up in the long shed, and now asked the reason why they were so made.“To keep them from tilting over when you are up there,” said Old Brownsmith. “Gently, Ike, don’t bruise them. Ah! there they go.”For, as Ike thumped down the bottom of the ladder, and then let the top lean against the tree, a couple of apples were knocked off, to come down, one with a thud on the soft soil, the other to strike in the fork of the tree and bound to my feet.“Some on ’em’s sure to get knocked off,” growled Ike. “Who’s agoin’ to pick?”“He is,” said Mr Brownsmith shortly.“Then you don’t want me no more?”“Not at present.”“Then I may go on with my planting?”“Yes.”“Ho!”I could not help feeling amused at the way in which this conversation was carried on, and the heavy clumsy manner adopted by Ike in going away.“There you are, Grant,” said Old Brownsmith, “plenty of apples. What do you say—can you go up the ladder safely and pick them?”“Oh yes, sir!” I cried.“And you will not fall?”“Oh! I shall not fall, sir,” I cried laughing.“Very well. Up you go then. Take your basket and hook it on to the round of the ladder where you are picking, then take each apple carefully, raise it, and it will come off at a point on the stalk where it joins the twig. Don’t tear them out and break the stalks, or they become unsaleable.”“I’ll mind, sir,” I said. “I know the big Marie Louise pears at home used to come off like that at a joint.”“Good!” he cried smiling, and tapping my shoulder. “When you’ve picked an apple of course you’ll throw it into the basket?”“Yes, sir.”“You’d better not,” he cried sharply. “Lay it in as tenderly as you can. If you throw it in, the apple will be bruised—bruised apples are worth very little in the market, and soon decay.”“I’ll mind them, sir,” I said, and eagerly mounting the ladder I began to pick the beautiful little apples that hung about me, Old Brownsmith watching me the while.“That’s right,” he said encouragingly. “When you get your basket nearly full, bring it down and empty it very gently in one of the sieves—gently, mind.”I promised, and he went away, leaving me as busy as could be in the warm sunshine, thoroughly enjoying my task, picking away carefully at the apples, beginning low down, and then getting higher and higher till I felt the ladder bend and the branch give, and I had to hold on tightly by one hand.I had to go down three times to empty my basket, pouring out the apples very gently so as not to bruise them, and at last I had picked all the pippins I could reach from the ladder.I got down and proceeded to move it, so as to get to another part of the tree.It was easy enough, after I had got it free of the twigs, to pull the ladder upright, and this done I looked at the place where I meant to put it next, and getting hold of it tightly, began to lift it by the spokes just as I had seen Ike manage it.The fact did not occur to me that I was a mere boy and he a muscular man, for I’m afraid I had plenty of conceit, and, drawing in a long breath, I lifted the ladder straight up easily enough, took a couple of steps in the right direction, and then felt to my horror that the strength of my arms was as nothing as soon as the balance ceased to be preserved, for in spite of my efforts the top of the ladder began to go over slowly, then faster and faster, then there was a sharp whishing crash as the bough of a pear-tree was literally cut off and a bump and a sharp crack.The top of the ladder had struck the ground, breaking several feet right off, and I was clinging to the bottom.One minute I was happy and in the highest of spirits; now I was plunged into a state of hopeless despair as I wondered what Old Brownsmith would say, and how much it would cost to repair that ladder.I was so prostrated by my accident that for a minute or so I stood holding on to the broken ladder, ruefully gazing at my work, and once I actually found myself looking towards the wall where the trained plum-trees formed a ladder easy of ascent for Shock, and just as easy for me to get over and run for it—anywhere so as not to have to meet Old Brownsmith after destroying his property.“Well, you’ve been and gone and done it now, young ’un, and no mistake,” said a gruff voice; and I found that Ike had come softly up behind me. “I thought it was you tumbling and breaking of yourself again; but the ladder. Oh my!”“I couldn’t help it,” I cried piteously; “the top was so heavy, it seemed to pull it over when I tried to move it. Please how much will a new one cost?”“Cost!” said Ike grimly, as he stood looking with one eye at the ladder, with the other at me—“hundred—hundred and twenty—say a hundred pound at the very outside.”“A hundred pounds!” I cried aghast.“Well, not more’n that,” said Ike. “Trying to move it, was you? and—why, you’ve smashed that branch off the pear-tree. I say, hadn’t you better cut and run?”“I don’t know, Ike,” I said hopelessly; “had I?”“Well, I don’t think I would this time. The ganger perhaps’ll let you off if you pay for it out of your wage.”“But I don’t have any wages,” I said in despair.“You don’t!” he cried. “Well, then, you’re in for it. My word, I wouldn’t be you for a crown.”I stood gazing helplessly from the ladder to Ike and back, half feeling that he was imposing upon me, but in too much trouble to resent it, and as I stared about a robin came and sat upon the broken branch, and seemed to be examining how much damage I had done.“Well, what shall we do, young ’un?” said Ike.“I suppose I must go on picking with the broken ladder,” I said gloomily.“You ain’t going to cut then?”“No,” I said firmly.“Then look here,” said Ike; “suppose I take the broken ladder up into the shed, and hang it up, and bring another. When the ganger finds it he’ll think it was Shock broke it, and then you’ll be all right, eh? What do you say to that?”“That I wouldn’t be such a coward,” I said stoutly. “I shall tell Mr Brownsmith myself.”“Oh, very well!” said Ike, stooping and picking up the broken ladder. “Here, give me that bit. I’ll soon be back. Don’t much matter. On’y four foot gone, and we wanted a shorter one. This’ll just do.”“Then it won’t cost a hundred pounds?” I cried.“No; nor a hundred pennies, boy. It was only my gammon. I’ll soon be back.”I felt as if a load had been lifted off my breast as Ike came back at a heavy trot with a fresh ladder and planted it for me against the apple-tree.“That’s about safe,” he cried. “If you feel yourself falling, hook one of your ears over a bough and hang on. Never mind the ladder: let that go.”“That’s nonsense!” I said sharply, and Ike chuckled.“Look ye here, boy,” he said, as I thanked him and ran up the ladder with my empty basket, “I’ll take that bough as you broke in among the gooseberries, where he never hardly comes, and I’ll tell him that I broke the ladder moving it. You’ve had plenty of trouble already, and my shoulders is bigger than yours.”“But it wouldn’t be true,” I said.“Wouldn’t it?” he replied, with a queer look. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t; but I’ll tell him all the same.”“No,” I cried, after a fight with a very cowardly feeling within me that seemed to be pulling me towards the creep-hole of escape, “I shall tell him myself.”Ike turned off sharply, and walked straight to where the broken pear bough lay, jumped up and pulled down the place where it had snapped off, opened his knife, and trimmed the ragged place off clean, and then went back to his work.“Now he’s offended,” I said to myself with a sigh; and I went on picking apples in terribly low spirits.

I did not understand it at the time, but that accident made me a very excellent friend in the shape of Ike, the big ugly carter and packer, for after his fashion he took me regularly under his wing, and watched over me during the time I was at Old Brownsmith’s.

I’m obliged to stop again over that way of speaking of the market-gardener, but whenever I write “Mr Brownsmith,” or “the old gentleman,” it does not seem natural. Old Brownsmith it always was, and I should not have been surprised to have seen his letters come by the postman directedOld Brownsmith.

Ike used to look quite pleasant when I was busy near him, and while he taught me all he knew, nothing pleased him better than for me to call him from his digging, or hoeing, or planting, to move a ladder, or lift a basket, or perform some other act that was beyond my strength.

All the same, though, he had a way of not showing it.

I had been at the garden about a week when Old Brownsmith began talking about picking some of his pippins to send to market.

“I hear they are making a good price,” he said, “and I shall try a few sieves to-morrow morning, Grant.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, for the sound of apple-picking was pleasant.

“I suppose if I were to send you up one of the apple trees with a basket, you would throw yourself out and break one of your limbs.”

“Oh no, sir!” I said. “I could climb one of the trees and pick the apples without doing that.”

“Thank you,” he replied; “that’s not the way to pick my apples. Why, don’t you know that the fruit does not grow in the middle of a tree, but round the outside, where the sun and wind can get at the blossom?”

“I didn’t know it,” I said rather ruefully. “I seem to be very ignorant. I wish I had been more to school.”

“They wouldn’t have taught you that at school, my lad,” he said smiling. “Why, of course you did not know it. I didn’t know such things when I was your age. Look here. You must have a ladder put for you against a tree, and take a basket with a hook to the handle. There, I’ll show you; but you are sure you will not tumble?”

“I’ll take care, sir,” I said. “I’ll be very careful.”

It was a sunny morning, and leading the way, Old Brownsmith went out to where Ike was busy putting in plants with a dibber, striding over a stretched-out line, making holes, thrusting in one of the plants he held in his left hand, and with one thrust or two of the dibber surrounding it with the soft moist earth.

He raised himself unwillingly, and went off to obey orders; one of the work-women was sent to fetch some flat sieves; while from one of the sheds I brought a couple of deep cross-handled baskets to each of which a wooden hook was attached.

By the time we had walked to where the king-pippin trees stood with their tall straight branches, Ike was before us with a ladder, with the lower rounds made of great length, so as to give width to the bottom.

I had noticed this before when I had seen the ladders hanging up in the long shed, and now asked the reason why they were so made.

“To keep them from tilting over when you are up there,” said Old Brownsmith. “Gently, Ike, don’t bruise them. Ah! there they go.”

For, as Ike thumped down the bottom of the ladder, and then let the top lean against the tree, a couple of apples were knocked off, to come down, one with a thud on the soft soil, the other to strike in the fork of the tree and bound to my feet.

“Some on ’em’s sure to get knocked off,” growled Ike. “Who’s agoin’ to pick?”

“He is,” said Mr Brownsmith shortly.

“Then you don’t want me no more?”

“Not at present.”

“Then I may go on with my planting?”

“Yes.”

“Ho!”

I could not help feeling amused at the way in which this conversation was carried on, and the heavy clumsy manner adopted by Ike in going away.

“There you are, Grant,” said Old Brownsmith, “plenty of apples. What do you say—can you go up the ladder safely and pick them?”

“Oh yes, sir!” I cried.

“And you will not fall?”

“Oh! I shall not fall, sir,” I cried laughing.

“Very well. Up you go then. Take your basket and hook it on to the round of the ladder where you are picking, then take each apple carefully, raise it, and it will come off at a point on the stalk where it joins the twig. Don’t tear them out and break the stalks, or they become unsaleable.”

“I’ll mind, sir,” I said. “I know the big Marie Louise pears at home used to come off like that at a joint.”

“Good!” he cried smiling, and tapping my shoulder. “When you’ve picked an apple of course you’ll throw it into the basket?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d better not,” he cried sharply. “Lay it in as tenderly as you can. If you throw it in, the apple will be bruised—bruised apples are worth very little in the market, and soon decay.”

“I’ll mind them, sir,” I said, and eagerly mounting the ladder I began to pick the beautiful little apples that hung about me, Old Brownsmith watching me the while.

“That’s right,” he said encouragingly. “When you get your basket nearly full, bring it down and empty it very gently in one of the sieves—gently, mind.”

I promised, and he went away, leaving me as busy as could be in the warm sunshine, thoroughly enjoying my task, picking away carefully at the apples, beginning low down, and then getting higher and higher till I felt the ladder bend and the branch give, and I had to hold on tightly by one hand.

I had to go down three times to empty my basket, pouring out the apples very gently so as not to bruise them, and at last I had picked all the pippins I could reach from the ladder.

I got down and proceeded to move it, so as to get to another part of the tree.

It was easy enough, after I had got it free of the twigs, to pull the ladder upright, and this done I looked at the place where I meant to put it next, and getting hold of it tightly, began to lift it by the spokes just as I had seen Ike manage it.

The fact did not occur to me that I was a mere boy and he a muscular man, for I’m afraid I had plenty of conceit, and, drawing in a long breath, I lifted the ladder straight up easily enough, took a couple of steps in the right direction, and then felt to my horror that the strength of my arms was as nothing as soon as the balance ceased to be preserved, for in spite of my efforts the top of the ladder began to go over slowly, then faster and faster, then there was a sharp whishing crash as the bough of a pear-tree was literally cut off and a bump and a sharp crack.

The top of the ladder had struck the ground, breaking several feet right off, and I was clinging to the bottom.

One minute I was happy and in the highest of spirits; now I was plunged into a state of hopeless despair as I wondered what Old Brownsmith would say, and how much it would cost to repair that ladder.

I was so prostrated by my accident that for a minute or so I stood holding on to the broken ladder, ruefully gazing at my work, and once I actually found myself looking towards the wall where the trained plum-trees formed a ladder easy of ascent for Shock, and just as easy for me to get over and run for it—anywhere so as not to have to meet Old Brownsmith after destroying his property.

“Well, you’ve been and gone and done it now, young ’un, and no mistake,” said a gruff voice; and I found that Ike had come softly up behind me. “I thought it was you tumbling and breaking of yourself again; but the ladder. Oh my!”

“I couldn’t help it,” I cried piteously; “the top was so heavy, it seemed to pull it over when I tried to move it. Please how much will a new one cost?”

“Cost!” said Ike grimly, as he stood looking with one eye at the ladder, with the other at me—“hundred—hundred and twenty—say a hundred pound at the very outside.”

“A hundred pounds!” I cried aghast.

“Well, not more’n that,” said Ike. “Trying to move it, was you? and—why, you’ve smashed that branch off the pear-tree. I say, hadn’t you better cut and run?”

“I don’t know, Ike,” I said hopelessly; “had I?”

“Well, I don’t think I would this time. The ganger perhaps’ll let you off if you pay for it out of your wage.”

“But I don’t have any wages,” I said in despair.

“You don’t!” he cried. “Well, then, you’re in for it. My word, I wouldn’t be you for a crown.”

I stood gazing helplessly from the ladder to Ike and back, half feeling that he was imposing upon me, but in too much trouble to resent it, and as I stared about a robin came and sat upon the broken branch, and seemed to be examining how much damage I had done.

“Well, what shall we do, young ’un?” said Ike.

“I suppose I must go on picking with the broken ladder,” I said gloomily.

“You ain’t going to cut then?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“Then look here,” said Ike; “suppose I take the broken ladder up into the shed, and hang it up, and bring another. When the ganger finds it he’ll think it was Shock broke it, and then you’ll be all right, eh? What do you say to that?”

“That I wouldn’t be such a coward,” I said stoutly. “I shall tell Mr Brownsmith myself.”

“Oh, very well!” said Ike, stooping and picking up the broken ladder. “Here, give me that bit. I’ll soon be back. Don’t much matter. On’y four foot gone, and we wanted a shorter one. This’ll just do.”

“Then it won’t cost a hundred pounds?” I cried.

“No; nor a hundred pennies, boy. It was only my gammon. I’ll soon be back.”

I felt as if a load had been lifted off my breast as Ike came back at a heavy trot with a fresh ladder and planted it for me against the apple-tree.

“That’s about safe,” he cried. “If you feel yourself falling, hook one of your ears over a bough and hang on. Never mind the ladder: let that go.”

“That’s nonsense!” I said sharply, and Ike chuckled.

“Look ye here, boy,” he said, as I thanked him and ran up the ladder with my empty basket, “I’ll take that bough as you broke in among the gooseberries, where he never hardly comes, and I’ll tell him that I broke the ladder moving it. You’ve had plenty of trouble already, and my shoulders is bigger than yours.”

“But it wouldn’t be true,” I said.

“Wouldn’t it?” he replied, with a queer look. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t; but I’ll tell him all the same.”

“No,” I cried, after a fight with a very cowardly feeling within me that seemed to be pulling me towards the creep-hole of escape, “I shall tell him myself.”

Ike turned off sharply, and walked straight to where the broken pear bough lay, jumped up and pulled down the place where it had snapped off, opened his knife, and trimmed the ragged place off clean, and then went back to his work.

“Now he’s offended,” I said to myself with a sigh; and I went on picking apples in terribly low spirits.

Chapter Ten.My First Apple.I had been working for about half an hour longer when I found I could get no more, and this time I went a little way and called Ike from where he was at work to move the ladder for me.He came in a surly way, and then stared at me.“Want me to move the ladder? Why can’t yer move it yerself?” he grumbled.“You know I’m not strong enough,” I said.“Ho! that’s it, is it? I thought you were such a great big cock-a-hoop sort of a chap that you could do anything. Well, where’s it to be?”“Round the other side, I think,” I said.“No; this here’s best,” he cried, and whisking up the ladder I stood admiring his great brown arms and the play of the muscles as he carried the ladder as if it had been a straw, and planted it, after thrusting the intervening boughs aside with the top to get it against a stout limb.“There you are, my lad,” he said. “Now, are you satisfied?”“Yes; and thank you, Ike,” I said quickly. “And I’m very much obliged to you about wanting to take the blame upon yourself about the broken ladder and—”“Here, I can’t stand listening to speeches with my plants a-shrivelling up in the sun. Call me if you wants me agen.”He gave me a curious look and went away, leaving me with the impression that I had thoroughly offended him now, and that I was a most unlucky boy.I climbed the ladder again, picking as fast as I could to make up for lost time; and as the sun shone so hotly and I kept on picking the beautiful fruit with the bough giving and swaying so easily, I began to feel more at ease once more. While I picked and filled and emptied my basket I began to reason with myself and to think that after all Mr Brownsmith would not be so very angry with me if I went to him boldly and told the truth.This thought cheered me wonderfully, and I was busily working away when I heard the whistling and scratching noise made by somebody walking sharply through the gooseberry bushes, and, looking round, there was Ike carrying another ladder, and Shock coming along loaded with baskets, evidently to go on picking apples from one of the neighbouring trees.They neither of them spoke. Ike planted the ladder ready, and Shock took a basket and ran up, and was hard at work by the time Ike was out of sight.I had hardly spoken to the boy since I had found him eating snails; and as I went on picking with my back to him, and thinking of the poor child being found crawling in the road and brought in a basket, and of his always running away from the workhouse, I felt a kind of pity for him, and determined to try if I could not help him, when all at once I felt a sharp pain accompanying a severe blow on the leg, as if some one had thrown a stone at me.I turned sharply round, holding tightly with one hand; but Shock’s back was turned to me, and he was picking apples most diligently.I looked about, and there was no one else near, the trees being too small for anyone to hide behind their trunks. Shock did not look in my direction, but worked away, and I at last, as the sting grew less, went on with mine.“I know it was him,” I said to myself angrily. “If I catch him at it—”I made some kind of mental vow about what I would do, finished filling my basket, went down and emptied it, and ascended the ladder again just as he was doing the same, but I might have been a hundred miles away for all the notice he took of me.I had just begun picking again, and was glancing over my shoulder to see if he was going to play any antics, when he began to ascend his ladder, and I went on.Thump!A big lump of earth struck me right in the back, and as I looked angrily round I saw Shock fall from the top to the bottom of his ladder, and I felt that horrible sensation that people call your heart in your mouth.He rose to a sitting position, put his hand to his head, and shouted out:“Who’s that throwing lumps?”Nobody answered; and as I saw him run up the ladder again it occurred to me that it was more a slip down than a fall from the ladder, and I had just come to this conclusion when, seeing that I was watching him, he made me start and cling tightly, for he suddenly fell again.It was like lightning almost. One moment he was high up on the ladder, the next he was at the foot; but this time I was able to make out that he guided himself with his arms and his legs, and that it was really more a slide down than a fall.I turned from him in disgust, annoyed with myself for letting him cheat me into the belief that he had met with an accident, and went on picking apples.“He’s no better than a monkey,” I said to myself.Whiz!An apple came so close to my ear, thrown with great violence, that I felt it almost brush me, and I turned so sharply round that I swung myself off the ladder, and had I not clung tightly by my hands I must have fallen.As it was, the ladder turned right round, in spite of its broadly set foot, and I hung beneath it, while my half-filled basket was in my place at the top.The distance was not great, but I felt startled as I hung there, when, to my utter astonishment, Shock threw himself round, twisted his ladder, and hung beneath just as I did, and then went down by his hands from round to round of the ladder, turned it back, ran up again, and went on picking apples as if nothing was wrong.I could not do as he did; I had not muscle enough in my arms, but I threw my legs round the tottering ladder, and slid down, turned it back to its old place, went up quickly, and again picked away.For the next quarter of an hour all was very quiet, and I had just finished getting all I could when Ike came along.I started guiltily, for I thought it was Old Brownsmith, but the voice reassured me, and I felt reprieved for the moment as Ike said:“Want the ladder moved?”I carried my basket down, and emptied it while Ike changed the position of the ladder.“There you are,” he said. “There’s plenty for you up yonder. Come, you’re getting on. Yes; and clean picked, too,” he continued, giving the basket a shake. “Now you, Shock, come down, and I’ll move yourn.”The boy got down sullenly, and turned his back to me while the ladder was moved, so that this time we were working at different trees, but nearly facing each other.Ike gave me a nod, and went off again to his work; and as I turned my head to gaze after him,whackcame a little apple, and struck me on the side of the ear.I was so much annoyed that I picked a big one out of my basket and threw it at Shock with all my might, disturbing my balance so that I had to hold on tightly with one hand.My shot did not go anywhere near the boy, but he fell from the ladder, hanging by one leg in a horrible way, his head down, and his hands feeling about and stretching here and there, as if to get hold of something to draw him up. He swung about and uttered a low animal-like moan of distress that horrified me, and sliding down my ladder, unwilling to call for aid, I ran to help him myself.He was squinting frightfully, and lay back head downwards, and arms outstretched on the ladder as I began to ascend. His face was flushed, his mouth open, and his tongue out. In fact, he looked as if he were being strangled by his position, and, trembling with eagerness, I went up four rounds, whensmack!crack! I received a blow on each ear that sent me down.When I recovered myself, my cheeks tingling, and my heart throbbing with wrath, Shock had thrown himself up again, and, with his back to me, was picking away at the apples as if nothing had been wrong.“You see if I trust you again, my fine fellow,” I cried in a rage; and, picking up a lot of clods, I began to pelt him as hard as I could, missing him half the time, but giving him several sharp blows on the back and head.It was the last shot that hit him on the head, and the clod was big and cakey, hitting him so hard that it flew to pieces like a shell.It must have hurt him, for he slid down and came at me fiercely with his mouth open, and showing his teeth like a dog.I daresay at another time, as he was much bigger and stronger than I was, I should have turned and fled; but just then I was so hot and excited that I went at him with my doubled fists, and for the next five minutes we were fighting furiously, every now and then engaged in a struggle, and going down to continue it upon the ground.I fell heavily several times, and was getting the worst of it when, all at once, I managed to get one hand free, and in my despair struck him as hard as I could.The blow must have been a hard one, for Shock staggered back, caught his foot in one of the gooseberry bushes, and fell with a crash into one of them, splitting the bush open.I was half blind with rage, and smarting with blows; and as he seemed to be coming at me again, I made another dash at him, striking out right and left with my arms going like a windmill, till I was checked suddenly by being lifted from the ground, and a hoarse voice uttered a tremendous—“Haw, haw, haw!”I had felt this last time that Shock was very big and strong, hence it took me some moments to realise that the boy had crept out of the gooseberry bush and had shuffled away, while it was Ike whom I was belabouring and drumming with all my might.“Well done, little one,” he cried. “There, cool down. Shock’s give in. You’ve whacked him. Here’s the ganger coming. Get on with your work.”Shock ran by us with a rush, mounted his ladder, and I hurried up mine, to go on picking as well, while, panting and hot, smarting with blows and anger, I wondered what Old Brownsmith would say to me for what I had done.He only went along the path, however, with his cats, as he saw that Ike was there, and the apple-picking went on till he was out of sight.“Ah! you’re only a bit dirty,” said Ike to me rather less roughly than usual. “Come down and I’ll give you a brush.”“There you are,” he said, after performing the task for me. “Was he up to his larks with you?”“Yes,” I said; “he has been pelting me, and he pretended to fall; and when I went to help him he struck me, and I couldn’t stand that.”“So you licked him well? That’s right, boy. He won’t do it again. If he does, give it him, and teach him better. I don’t like fighting till you’re obliged; but when you are obliged—hit hard’s my motter, and that’s what you’ve done by him.”Of course I knew thatthatwas what I had done by him, but I felt very sorry all the same, for I knew I had hurt Shock a good deal, and I had hurt myself; and somehow, as Ike went away chuckling and rubbing his big hands down his sides, it seemed very cruel of him to laugh.Everything seemed to have gone so wrong, and I was in such trouble, that neither the sunshine nor the beauty of the apples gave me the least satisfaction.I kept on picking, expecting every moment that Shock would begin again, and I kept a watchful eye upon him; but he threw no more lumps of earth or apples, and only went on picking as quickly as he could, and I noticed that he always had his face turned from me.“I do nothing but offend people,” I thought, as I worked away, and I felt as sure as could be that this boy would contrive pitfalls for me and play me tricks, making my life quite a burden. In fact, I became very imaginative, as boys of my age often will, and instead of trying to take things in the manly English spirit that should be the aim of every lad, I grew more and more depressed.Just when I was at my worst, and I was thinking what an unlucky boy I was, I heard a sound, followed by another. The nearest representation of the sounds are these—Quack—craunche.“Why, he’s eating apples,” I said to myself, as I went down my ladder, emptied my basket, and went up again.Now some who read this will think it a strange thing, but, though I had been busy all that morning handling beautiful little pippins, long, rosy, and flat-topped, I had never even thought of tasting one.Like fruit? I loved it; but I was so intent upon my work, so eager to do it well, and I had had so much to think about, that it seemed to come upon me like a surprise that the apples were good to eat.Now that Shock had begun, and was crunching away famously as he worked, I suddenly found that, though I was not so hot as I was after my encounter, my mouth felt dry. I was very thirsty, and those apples seemed to be the most tempting of any I had ever seen in my life.But I would not touch one. I went higher up the ladder and picked; then higher and higher till I was close to the top, holding on by the tall stem of the tree picking some of the ripest apples I had yet gathered, and swaying with a pleasant motion every time I reached here or there to pick one at the end of a twig.What beauties they seemed, and how, while those that grew in the shady parts under the leaves, were of a delicate green, the ones I had picked from out in the full sunshine were dark and ruddy and bronzed! How they clustered together too, out here in the top of the tree, so thickly that it seemed as if I should never get them all.But by degrees I reached up and up where I could not take the basket, and thrust the apples into my breast and pockets. One I had a tremendous job to reach, after going a little lower to where my basket hung to empty my pockets before climbing again. It was a splendid fellow, the biggest yet, and growing right at the top of a twig.It seemed dangerous to get up there, for it meant holding on by the branch, and standing on the very top round of the ladder, and I hesitated. Still I did not like to be beaten, and with the branch bending I held on and went up and up, till I stood right at the top of the ladder, and then cautiously raising my hand I was about to reach up at and try to pick the apple, when something induced me to turn my head and look in the direction of Shock’s tree.Sure enough he was watching me. I saw his face right up in the top; but he turned it quickly, and there was a rustle and a crack as if he had nearly fallen.For a few moments this unsteadied me, and for the first time I began to think that I was running great risks, and that I should fall. So peculiar was the feeling that I clung tightly to the swaying bending branch and shut my eyes.The feeling went off as quickly as it came, for I set my teeth, and, knowing that Shock was watching me, determined that he should not see I was afraid.The next moment I was reaching up cautiously, and by degrees got my hand just under the apple, but couldget no higher. My head was thrown back, the branch bending towards me, and my feet on the top round, so that I was leaning back far out of the perpendicular, and the more I tried to get that pippin, and could not reach, the more bright and beautiful it looked.I forgot all about the danger, for Shock was watching me, and I would have it; and as I strained up I at last was able to touch it with the tips of my fingers, for my feet were pressing the branch one way, my hands drawing it the other, till it came lower, lower, lower, my fingers grasped the apple—more and more, and at last, when I felt that I could bear the strain no longer, the stalk gave way, and the apple dropped between the twig and my hand.Then for a moment, as I grasped it, I felt as if I was going to lose my footing, and hang off the ladder. If I did, the bough was so thin that I knew it would break, and it was only by exerting all my strength that I held on.At last, lowering hand below hand, I got to be a little more upright. My feet were firmer on the ladder, and I was able to take a step down.Another few moments and, with a sigh of relief at my escape from a heavy fall—for it really was an escape—I thrust the beautiful apple in my breast and descended to my basket, gave a final glance round to see if there was any more fruit within reach, found there was not, and so I went to the foot of the ladder, emptied my basket, took out the apple from my breast, and found that it was as beautiful as it had seemed up there.“I must have you,” I thought, and, turning the rosy side towards me, I took a tremendous bite out of it, a rich sweet juicy bite, and then stood staring stupidly, for Old Brownsmith was standing there with his cats, looking at me in a quiet serious way.

I had been working for about half an hour longer when I found I could get no more, and this time I went a little way and called Ike from where he was at work to move the ladder for me.

He came in a surly way, and then stared at me.

“Want me to move the ladder? Why can’t yer move it yerself?” he grumbled.

“You know I’m not strong enough,” I said.

“Ho! that’s it, is it? I thought you were such a great big cock-a-hoop sort of a chap that you could do anything. Well, where’s it to be?”

“Round the other side, I think,” I said.

“No; this here’s best,” he cried, and whisking up the ladder I stood admiring his great brown arms and the play of the muscles as he carried the ladder as if it had been a straw, and planted it, after thrusting the intervening boughs aside with the top to get it against a stout limb.

“There you are, my lad,” he said. “Now, are you satisfied?”

“Yes; and thank you, Ike,” I said quickly. “And I’m very much obliged to you about wanting to take the blame upon yourself about the broken ladder and—”

“Here, I can’t stand listening to speeches with my plants a-shrivelling up in the sun. Call me if you wants me agen.”

He gave me a curious look and went away, leaving me with the impression that I had thoroughly offended him now, and that I was a most unlucky boy.

I climbed the ladder again, picking as fast as I could to make up for lost time; and as the sun shone so hotly and I kept on picking the beautiful fruit with the bough giving and swaying so easily, I began to feel more at ease once more. While I picked and filled and emptied my basket I began to reason with myself and to think that after all Mr Brownsmith would not be so very angry with me if I went to him boldly and told the truth.

This thought cheered me wonderfully, and I was busily working away when I heard the whistling and scratching noise made by somebody walking sharply through the gooseberry bushes, and, looking round, there was Ike carrying another ladder, and Shock coming along loaded with baskets, evidently to go on picking apples from one of the neighbouring trees.

They neither of them spoke. Ike planted the ladder ready, and Shock took a basket and ran up, and was hard at work by the time Ike was out of sight.

I had hardly spoken to the boy since I had found him eating snails; and as I went on picking with my back to him, and thinking of the poor child being found crawling in the road and brought in a basket, and of his always running away from the workhouse, I felt a kind of pity for him, and determined to try if I could not help him, when all at once I felt a sharp pain accompanying a severe blow on the leg, as if some one had thrown a stone at me.

I turned sharply round, holding tightly with one hand; but Shock’s back was turned to me, and he was picking apples most diligently.

I looked about, and there was no one else near, the trees being too small for anyone to hide behind their trunks. Shock did not look in my direction, but worked away, and I at last, as the sting grew less, went on with mine.

“I know it was him,” I said to myself angrily. “If I catch him at it—”

I made some kind of mental vow about what I would do, finished filling my basket, went down and emptied it, and ascended the ladder again just as he was doing the same, but I might have been a hundred miles away for all the notice he took of me.

I had just begun picking again, and was glancing over my shoulder to see if he was going to play any antics, when he began to ascend his ladder, and I went on.

Thump!

A big lump of earth struck me right in the back, and as I looked angrily round I saw Shock fall from the top to the bottom of his ladder, and I felt that horrible sensation that people call your heart in your mouth.

He rose to a sitting position, put his hand to his head, and shouted out:

“Who’s that throwing lumps?”

Nobody answered; and as I saw him run up the ladder again it occurred to me that it was more a slip down than a fall from the ladder, and I had just come to this conclusion when, seeing that I was watching him, he made me start and cling tightly, for he suddenly fell again.

It was like lightning almost. One moment he was high up on the ladder, the next he was at the foot; but this time I was able to make out that he guided himself with his arms and his legs, and that it was really more a slide down than a fall.

I turned from him in disgust, annoyed with myself for letting him cheat me into the belief that he had met with an accident, and went on picking apples.

“He’s no better than a monkey,” I said to myself.

Whiz!

An apple came so close to my ear, thrown with great violence, that I felt it almost brush me, and I turned so sharply round that I swung myself off the ladder, and had I not clung tightly by my hands I must have fallen.

As it was, the ladder turned right round, in spite of its broadly set foot, and I hung beneath it, while my half-filled basket was in my place at the top.

The distance was not great, but I felt startled as I hung there, when, to my utter astonishment, Shock threw himself round, twisted his ladder, and hung beneath just as I did, and then went down by his hands from round to round of the ladder, turned it back, ran up again, and went on picking apples as if nothing was wrong.

I could not do as he did; I had not muscle enough in my arms, but I threw my legs round the tottering ladder, and slid down, turned it back to its old place, went up quickly, and again picked away.

For the next quarter of an hour all was very quiet, and I had just finished getting all I could when Ike came along.

I started guiltily, for I thought it was Old Brownsmith, but the voice reassured me, and I felt reprieved for the moment as Ike said:

“Want the ladder moved?”

I carried my basket down, and emptied it while Ike changed the position of the ladder.

“There you are,” he said. “There’s plenty for you up yonder. Come, you’re getting on. Yes; and clean picked, too,” he continued, giving the basket a shake. “Now you, Shock, come down, and I’ll move yourn.”

The boy got down sullenly, and turned his back to me while the ladder was moved, so that this time we were working at different trees, but nearly facing each other.

Ike gave me a nod, and went off again to his work; and as I turned my head to gaze after him,whackcame a little apple, and struck me on the side of the ear.

I was so much annoyed that I picked a big one out of my basket and threw it at Shock with all my might, disturbing my balance so that I had to hold on tightly with one hand.

My shot did not go anywhere near the boy, but he fell from the ladder, hanging by one leg in a horrible way, his head down, and his hands feeling about and stretching here and there, as if to get hold of something to draw him up. He swung about and uttered a low animal-like moan of distress that horrified me, and sliding down my ladder, unwilling to call for aid, I ran to help him myself.

He was squinting frightfully, and lay back head downwards, and arms outstretched on the ladder as I began to ascend. His face was flushed, his mouth open, and his tongue out. In fact, he looked as if he were being strangled by his position, and, trembling with eagerness, I went up four rounds, whensmack!crack! I received a blow on each ear that sent me down.

When I recovered myself, my cheeks tingling, and my heart throbbing with wrath, Shock had thrown himself up again, and, with his back to me, was picking away at the apples as if nothing had been wrong.

“You see if I trust you again, my fine fellow,” I cried in a rage; and, picking up a lot of clods, I began to pelt him as hard as I could, missing him half the time, but giving him several sharp blows on the back and head.

It was the last shot that hit him on the head, and the clod was big and cakey, hitting him so hard that it flew to pieces like a shell.

It must have hurt him, for he slid down and came at me fiercely with his mouth open, and showing his teeth like a dog.

I daresay at another time, as he was much bigger and stronger than I was, I should have turned and fled; but just then I was so hot and excited that I went at him with my doubled fists, and for the next five minutes we were fighting furiously, every now and then engaged in a struggle, and going down to continue it upon the ground.

I fell heavily several times, and was getting the worst of it when, all at once, I managed to get one hand free, and in my despair struck him as hard as I could.

The blow must have been a hard one, for Shock staggered back, caught his foot in one of the gooseberry bushes, and fell with a crash into one of them, splitting the bush open.

I was half blind with rage, and smarting with blows; and as he seemed to be coming at me again, I made another dash at him, striking out right and left with my arms going like a windmill, till I was checked suddenly by being lifted from the ground, and a hoarse voice uttered a tremendous—“Haw, haw, haw!”

I had felt this last time that Shock was very big and strong, hence it took me some moments to realise that the boy had crept out of the gooseberry bush and had shuffled away, while it was Ike whom I was belabouring and drumming with all my might.

“Well done, little one,” he cried. “There, cool down. Shock’s give in. You’ve whacked him. Here’s the ganger coming. Get on with your work.”

Shock ran by us with a rush, mounted his ladder, and I hurried up mine, to go on picking as well, while, panting and hot, smarting with blows and anger, I wondered what Old Brownsmith would say to me for what I had done.

He only went along the path, however, with his cats, as he saw that Ike was there, and the apple-picking went on till he was out of sight.

“Ah! you’re only a bit dirty,” said Ike to me rather less roughly than usual. “Come down and I’ll give you a brush.”

“There you are,” he said, after performing the task for me. “Was he up to his larks with you?”

“Yes,” I said; “he has been pelting me, and he pretended to fall; and when I went to help him he struck me, and I couldn’t stand that.”

“So you licked him well? That’s right, boy. He won’t do it again. If he does, give it him, and teach him better. I don’t like fighting till you’re obliged; but when you are obliged—hit hard’s my motter, and that’s what you’ve done by him.”

Of course I knew thatthatwas what I had done by him, but I felt very sorry all the same, for I knew I had hurt Shock a good deal, and I had hurt myself; and somehow, as Ike went away chuckling and rubbing his big hands down his sides, it seemed very cruel of him to laugh.

Everything seemed to have gone so wrong, and I was in such trouble, that neither the sunshine nor the beauty of the apples gave me the least satisfaction.

I kept on picking, expecting every moment that Shock would begin again, and I kept a watchful eye upon him; but he threw no more lumps of earth or apples, and only went on picking as quickly as he could, and I noticed that he always had his face turned from me.

“I do nothing but offend people,” I thought, as I worked away, and I felt as sure as could be that this boy would contrive pitfalls for me and play me tricks, making my life quite a burden. In fact, I became very imaginative, as boys of my age often will, and instead of trying to take things in the manly English spirit that should be the aim of every lad, I grew more and more depressed.

Just when I was at my worst, and I was thinking what an unlucky boy I was, I heard a sound, followed by another. The nearest representation of the sounds are these—Quack—craunche.

“Why, he’s eating apples,” I said to myself, as I went down my ladder, emptied my basket, and went up again.

Now some who read this will think it a strange thing, but, though I had been busy all that morning handling beautiful little pippins, long, rosy, and flat-topped, I had never even thought of tasting one.

Like fruit? I loved it; but I was so intent upon my work, so eager to do it well, and I had had so much to think about, that it seemed to come upon me like a surprise that the apples were good to eat.

Now that Shock had begun, and was crunching away famously as he worked, I suddenly found that, though I was not so hot as I was after my encounter, my mouth felt dry. I was very thirsty, and those apples seemed to be the most tempting of any I had ever seen in my life.

But I would not touch one. I went higher up the ladder and picked; then higher and higher till I was close to the top, holding on by the tall stem of the tree picking some of the ripest apples I had yet gathered, and swaying with a pleasant motion every time I reached here or there to pick one at the end of a twig.

What beauties they seemed, and how, while those that grew in the shady parts under the leaves, were of a delicate green, the ones I had picked from out in the full sunshine were dark and ruddy and bronzed! How they clustered together too, out here in the top of the tree, so thickly that it seemed as if I should never get them all.

But by degrees I reached up and up where I could not take the basket, and thrust the apples into my breast and pockets. One I had a tremendous job to reach, after going a little lower to where my basket hung to empty my pockets before climbing again. It was a splendid fellow, the biggest yet, and growing right at the top of a twig.

It seemed dangerous to get up there, for it meant holding on by the branch, and standing on the very top round of the ladder, and I hesitated. Still I did not like to be beaten, and with the branch bending I held on and went up and up, till I stood right at the top of the ladder, and then cautiously raising my hand I was about to reach up at and try to pick the apple, when something induced me to turn my head and look in the direction of Shock’s tree.

Sure enough he was watching me. I saw his face right up in the top; but he turned it quickly, and there was a rustle and a crack as if he had nearly fallen.

For a few moments this unsteadied me, and for the first time I began to think that I was running great risks, and that I should fall. So peculiar was the feeling that I clung tightly to the swaying bending branch and shut my eyes.

The feeling went off as quickly as it came, for I set my teeth, and, knowing that Shock was watching me, determined that he should not see I was afraid.

The next moment I was reaching up cautiously, and by degrees got my hand just under the apple, but couldget no higher. My head was thrown back, the branch bending towards me, and my feet on the top round, so that I was leaning back far out of the perpendicular, and the more I tried to get that pippin, and could not reach, the more bright and beautiful it looked.

I forgot all about the danger, for Shock was watching me, and I would have it; and as I strained up I at last was able to touch it with the tips of my fingers, for my feet were pressing the branch one way, my hands drawing it the other, till it came lower, lower, lower, my fingers grasped the apple—more and more, and at last, when I felt that I could bear the strain no longer, the stalk gave way, and the apple dropped between the twig and my hand.

Then for a moment, as I grasped it, I felt as if I was going to lose my footing, and hang off the ladder. If I did, the bough was so thin that I knew it would break, and it was only by exerting all my strength that I held on.

At last, lowering hand below hand, I got to be a little more upright. My feet were firmer on the ladder, and I was able to take a step down.

Another few moments and, with a sigh of relief at my escape from a heavy fall—for it really was an escape—I thrust the beautiful apple in my breast and descended to my basket, gave a final glance round to see if there was any more fruit within reach, found there was not, and so I went to the foot of the ladder, emptied my basket, took out the apple from my breast, and found that it was as beautiful as it had seemed up there.

“I must have you,” I thought, and, turning the rosy side towards me, I took a tremendous bite out of it, a rich sweet juicy bite, and then stood staring stupidly, for Old Brownsmith was standing there with his cats, looking at me in a quiet serious way.

Chapter Eleven.Making Things Right.Just at that moment I fancied that I heard a sort of laugh from up in the other tree, but my eyes were fixed upon Old Brownsmith, and I had a large piece of apple in my mouth that I dared not begin to chew.He stood looking at me as I stood there, feeling three of his cats come and begin rubbing themselves up against my legs in the most friendly way, while I felt as if my misfortunes were being piled up one on the top of the other.From previous conversations I had gathered that he expected the boys to now and then eat a little fruit, and there was no harm in it; but it seemed so hard that the very first time I tasted an apple he should be standing there watching me.“Dinner’s ready,” he said suddenly; “come along.”“Shall I leave the baskets here, sir?” I said.“Yes; just as they are.”He stooped down and examined the apples, turning them over a little.“Hah! yes,” he said; “nicely picked. That will do. You’ve got on too.”He went on, and I was following behind the cats, but he drew on one side to let me walk by him.“Eat your apple,” he said smiling, as he looked sidewise at me. “Only we always pick out the ugliest fruit and vegetables for home use, and send the best-looking to market.”“I’ll remember that, sir,” I said.“Do, Grant, my lad. You will not lose by it, for I’ll tell you something. The shabbiest-looking, awkwardly-grown apples, pears, and plums are generally the finest flavoured.”“Are they, sir?” I said.“That they are, my boy. If you want a delicious pear don’t pick out the great shapely ones, but those that are screwed all on one side and covered with rusty spots. The same with the plums and apples. They are almost always to be depended upon.”I had finished my mouthful of apple, and thrust the fruit in my jacket pocket.“It is often the same with people in this life, my boy. Many of the plain-looking, shabby folks are very beautiful everywhere but outside. There’s a moral lesson for you. Save it up.”I said I would, and looked at him sidewise, hesitating, for I wanted to speak to him. I was wondering, too, whether he knew that I had been fighting with Shock, for my hands were very dirty and my knuckles were cut.He did not speak any more, but stooped and took up one of the cats, to stroke it and let it get up on his shoulder, and we had nearly reached the house before I burst out desperately:“If you please, Mr Brownsmith—”Then I stopped short and stared at him helplessly, for the words seemed to stick in my throat.“Well,” he said, “what is it? Want to speak to me?”“Yes, sir,” I burst out; “I want to tell you that I—that I broke—”“The ladder, eh?” he said smiling. “That’s right, Grant; always speak out when you have had an accident of any kind. Nothing like being frank. It’s honest and gives people confidence in you. Yes, I know all about the ladder. I was coming to see if you wanted it moved when I saw you overcome by it. Did Ike trim off that branch?”“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.

Just at that moment I fancied that I heard a sort of laugh from up in the other tree, but my eyes were fixed upon Old Brownsmith, and I had a large piece of apple in my mouth that I dared not begin to chew.

He stood looking at me as I stood there, feeling three of his cats come and begin rubbing themselves up against my legs in the most friendly way, while I felt as if my misfortunes were being piled up one on the top of the other.

From previous conversations I had gathered that he expected the boys to now and then eat a little fruit, and there was no harm in it; but it seemed so hard that the very first time I tasted an apple he should be standing there watching me.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said suddenly; “come along.”

“Shall I leave the baskets here, sir?” I said.

“Yes; just as they are.”

He stooped down and examined the apples, turning them over a little.

“Hah! yes,” he said; “nicely picked. That will do. You’ve got on too.”

He went on, and I was following behind the cats, but he drew on one side to let me walk by him.

“Eat your apple,” he said smiling, as he looked sidewise at me. “Only we always pick out the ugliest fruit and vegetables for home use, and send the best-looking to market.”

“I’ll remember that, sir,” I said.

“Do, Grant, my lad. You will not lose by it, for I’ll tell you something. The shabbiest-looking, awkwardly-grown apples, pears, and plums are generally the finest flavoured.”

“Are they, sir?” I said.

“That they are, my boy. If you want a delicious pear don’t pick out the great shapely ones, but those that are screwed all on one side and covered with rusty spots. The same with the plums and apples. They are almost always to be depended upon.”

I had finished my mouthful of apple, and thrust the fruit in my jacket pocket.

“It is often the same with people in this life, my boy. Many of the plain-looking, shabby folks are very beautiful everywhere but outside. There’s a moral lesson for you. Save it up.”

I said I would, and looked at him sidewise, hesitating, for I wanted to speak to him. I was wondering, too, whether he knew that I had been fighting with Shock, for my hands were very dirty and my knuckles were cut.

He did not speak any more, but stooped and took up one of the cats, to stroke it and let it get up on his shoulder, and we had nearly reached the house before I burst out desperately:

“If you please, Mr Brownsmith—”

Then I stopped short and stared at him helplessly, for the words seemed to stick in my throat.

“Well,” he said, “what is it? Want to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir,” I burst out; “I want to tell you that I—that I broke—”

“The ladder, eh?” he said smiling. “That’s right, Grant; always speak out when you have had an accident of any kind. Nothing like being frank. It’s honest and gives people confidence in you. Yes, I know all about the ladder. I was coming to see if you wanted it moved when I saw you overcome by it. Did Ike trim off that branch?”

“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.

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