Brownsmiths Boy - A Romance in a Garden - Page 71/241

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.