BASKETS.
THERE are ever so many kinds of baskets used in Covent Garden Market,
some of good measure, and some of guess, and some of luck altogether,
like a Railway’s charges. They come from every quarter of the globe;
and the pensive public may be well pleased if it gets a quarter of its
bargain. A bushel may hold a peck more or less, according to the last
jump made upon it. The basket-makers are by no means rogues, because
the contents can make no difference to them. They turn out strong ware,
at a very high price, so many inches in width, and so many in depth,
according to tradition. Then they pat it, and pitch it down, and paint
the name upon it; and their business ends, except to get their money.
And of this they never fail; for the grower, as a rule, grows honesty
as his chief, and often only crop. But after that basket’s virgin fill,
how many meretricious uses does it undergo! The poor grower, who has
paid half a crown for it, never uses it again perhaps, until it is worn
out, and comes back to him, with a shilling demanded for his name; when
it has spent all its prime in half the shops and trucks of London.
Here it has passed through a varied course of fundamental changes,
alternately holding three pecks and five according to its use for sale
or purchase. At first it was gifted with a slightly incurved bottom,
not such a deep “kick” as a Champagne-bottle has—which Napoleon III.
vainly strove to abolish—but a moderate and decent inward tendency.
Here the rogue spies his vantage ground. Before filling it for sale, he
lays it flat upon its rim, mounts upon the concave eternal, and with a
few heavy jumps of both heels produces a bold and lofty internal dome.
Then he stuffs up the cavity round the side with a tidy lot of hay, or
leaves, or paper, and lo you have three pecks as brave as any four! But
is he going to buy by that measure? He lays it firmly upon its base,
gets inside, and jumps with equal vigour. The accommodating bottom
becomes concave, and he brings home five pecks running over into his
bosom.
As honest producers, we know nothing of all this—except by the mark of
hobnails on our wicker, when it comes home with no integrity left—our
business is to fill our baskets, whenever the Lord permits us, keeping
the top fruit certainly not worse than the bottom, for that would be
Quixotic, but not a bit better than human nature, and the artistic
sense, demand of us. And there have been few greater calumnies of
recent years—though the world grows more and more calumnious—than to
call my Uncle Orchardson “Corny the topper,” as if he covered rubbish
with a crown of red or gold! A topper he was; but it was only thus—he
topped all his customers in honesty.
This explanation was necessary, and should have been offered long ago.
But I thought it as well to let people see first from his character, as
given by himself and me, that he required no such vindication. If ever
there was a man who gave good change for sixpence, ay, and took good
care to get it, too, you will own it was my Uncle Corny.
However, he used for inferior fruit, such as windfalls, or maggoty,
or undersized stuff, a cheaper and commoner form of basket, such as
the dealers call “Sallies.” These are of no especial measure, but hold
on the average about half a bushel, some of them much more, and some
a little less, and there is no name marked upon them. They come, for
the most part, with foreign fruit in them, and are often thrown by,
when emptied; and there are men about the market who collect these,
perhaps for nothing, or at any rate for very little, and sell them to
the fruit-growers, or the dealers, at prices which vary according to
their quality and the demand for them, etc. They can often be had at
a shilling a dozen, at which price they are cheap for any use; and at
times they are not to be got under sixpence apiece, but perhaps the
average is twopence. They are deeper than baskets of measure, and not
so wide, also made of much lighter wicker, and often full of stubs
inside, which would never do for best or second fruit; in fact, they
are like a waste-paper basket, such as one often sees under a table.
When I had been gone, at least a fortnight, I should say—though I
could not be certain about dates just then—to my Aunt Parslow’s at
Leatherhead, my uncle having done all his grafting by himself, for
there always was some to do every year, took a general look at his
trees, and found that the buds looked as promising as ever he had seen
them. He was rather surprised at this, not at all on account of the
long hard winter, but because of the very cold wet summer and autumn
which had preceded it. The trees would be full of unripe wood, and
sappy shoots shrivelled by the frost, and scurfy bark, and perished
boughs, and general discomfort, and sulkiness. At least everybody said
that was how they ought to be, and my uncle had never contradicted
them, preferring a little pessimism, because it is always the safer
side. And probably upon cold, wet soils, all the evils predicted had
succeeded, which would make it all the better for the places where
they failed. So that my uncle, while sympathizing warmly with all his
brother growers in their bad look-out, shook his head about his own,
and smoked his pipe, and would not speak of his chickens, much less
count them.
But, when the sun began to get the upper hand of the days again, and
the spring was looking through the hedge and into the hearts of the
trees almost, and the earth seemed ready to lift its breast, as a
maiden does for her flowers to be fixed, and every shrub that showed
a leaf had got a bird to sing to it—for a time, the best man found
it hard to make the worst of everything; and even the often frozen
grower hoped not to be frozen again this year. For the later an English
fruit-tree is in showing its white or pink challenge to the sky, the
less is the chance of unheavenly heaven descending with a white blow,
and smiting all to utter blackness. The ground had been frozen to a
depth of twenty inches by the rigour of enduring frost; and after that
the push of spring takes a long time to get down the line.
“Tompkins,” said my uncle, who was poking about with a spade, to
kill snails in some Iris roots, for no sort of winter makes much
difference to a snail; drought in their breeding-time is all they care
for much—“Tompkins, it is high time to be looking up our baskets. In
another month, those fellows will be sticking it on again.”
“That ’em will,” the long man replied. He was short of tongue, as a
very tall man, by some ordinance of Nature, almost always is—perhaps
because his fellow-creatures’ hats have endangered it while it was
tender.
“You had better go over and see old Wisk, at three-quarter day
to-morrow. You can have the tax-cart, and just see what he has. He is
bound to have a good stock now, after all the long frost and snow, on
hand. And he is pretty sure to be hard up. In June he begins to grin
at us. Get the figure for bushels, and halfs, by the gross, but don’t
order any, until I know. But if he has picked up any Sallies, you might
bring a gross at a shilling a dozen. I will give you twelve shillings;
and I’ll be bound the old rogue will be glad of a bit of ready money.”
“All right, governor.” Selsey Bill offered up one gaunt knuckle to
his hat, which had no brim to accept it; for he had improved in sense
of manners, since his wages were advanced. He had been put on, when
the days pulled out, to twenty shillings a week, with a title, not
conferred, but generally felt, of foreman of the outdoor work. He had
a shilling apiece for his children now every week, and another for his
wife, and two to think about all Sunday. And my firm belief is that if
he could have earned another by wronging us, he would have made the
tempter swallow it.
“But mind one thing,” said my uncle strongly, for he found it ruinous
to relax; “your wife’s brother I believe it is, that keeps the _Crooked
Billet_ beyond the heath, not a hundred yards from old Wisk’s place.
You need not pull _Spanker_ up, to give Mrs. Tomkin’s love, you know.”
“Right you are, governor. What wicked things you do put into a fellow’s
head!” My uncle grinned, and so did Bill, but with his long back
turned, and his hand upon his spade.
On the following afternoon, Bill acted with the truest sense of honour.
As he approached the _Crooked Billet_, the wind (for which he was not
to blame) brought him the burden of a drawling song, drawled as only
a Middlesex man—who can beat all the North and even West at that—can
troll his slow emotions forth. “Oh, I would be a jolly gardener, I
would be a jolly gardener; with my pot and my pipe, for my swig, and my
swipe; and the devil take the rest, say I!” Bill knew every nose that
was singing this, and every fist that was drumming on the table. But
such were his principles, that instead of pulling up, he let the reins
hang loose, and even said “Kuck” to old _Spanker_.
Although we had owned him so long, this horse had never forgotten his
ancient days, when he may have belonged to a brewer perhaps. For he
never could pass any hostelry of a cool and respectable aspect, with
a tree and a trough in front of it, but that he would offer a genial
glance from the corner of one blinker, and make a short step, and show
a readiness to parley. He did more than this now, for he pulled up
short, and tossed up his nose, and accosted with a whinny a horse of
more leisure, who was standing by the door.
“Wants to wash his mouth out. So do I. But I’ll be hanged if I’ll go
inside all the same.” Reasoning thus, Selsey Bill got down, for he saw
a wisp of hay by the trough just fitted to dip in the water and cool
the muzzle. But before he could hoist his long legs into the cart, as
he positively meant to do, a buxom short woman had his arm enclasped
with two red hands, and was looking up at him, with words of reproach,
but a smile of good will.
“It ain’t no nonsense, I tell you, Bill,” she exclaimed in reply to his
soft remonstrance; “come in you shall, and have a word or two inside.
I’ve got something particular on my mind. And you’ll never forgive
yourself, if you goes on like this.”
What could Tompkins do? His wife’s brother’s wife was Godmother to
nearly half his children, and she had a bit of money of her own, and no
children of her own to leave it to. “Well, only half a minute then,”
he said, to ease his conscience; “and not a drop of beer, you know.
Leastways, not till I’ve been to old Wisk, over yonner.”
“Why, the old chap’s inside! Seems a Providence to me, because now you
be bound to come in and see him. But I want to talk separate to you,
Bill. You have got such a head you know, such a way up!”
The landlady took Bill to her own room round the corner of the house,
so that no one saw him, while Spanker was linked to the post and had
some hay. And she told him such a story that his little black eyes,
which tried to look at one another over his great nose, twinkled, and
flashed, and were full of puzzled wrath. Then she brought him a pint of
mild ale, for she knew that his mind worked slowly, and required to be
refreshed.
“Never heered tell of such a job in my born days. Couldn’t ’a believed
it, if it wasn’t you, Eliza. You was always truth itself. But how can
you be sartin the young girl as told you is quite right in her mind?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, Bill, for she is a stranger about here. But
she looks right enough, and she was genuine flustrated. And more than
that, there’s several things that comes to back her up like. What shall
we do, Bill? That’s the point.”
“Sure enough, so it is. What does Teddy say to it?”
“Well, you know what he is. If he see a murder doing, I believe he’d
shut his eyes and ears, and whip round the corner. And besides that,
he is never no good after two o’clock; and I only heard of this about
an hour ago. So, to tell you the plain truth, I haven’t said a word
about it. And it’s no good to tell him nothing till to-morrow morning.
Not that he takes so very much, you know. But his constitution is that
queer. If you had not come by, I was just making of my mind up to put
on my shawl, and step off for the police. Though it’s three miles to
go, and then most likely never find them.”
“And if you did, I don’t believe they’d take a bit of notice.
Leastways, not, if they was disposition’d same as ours. Got never a
Justice of the peace round here, some countries they calls them a
Magistrate?”
“Nobody nearer than Colonel Bowles, and Ted was saying yesterday that
he was gone from home. No, Bill, for all I can see, there’s not a soul
to move a finger, unless ’tis you and me.”
“But what can us do? I can’t see no call for us to meddle if policemen
won’t. Enough to do with my own kids, sister ’Liza, and nobody but me
to help ’em. Well, I must be jogging.”
“No you won’t be jogging, and you’ve got to see Wisk. Where’s your
common sense, Bill? Can’t you see that he’ll stick a shilling on to
everything, if they send down here to fetch him for you. No man can
abide to be disturbed with his glass, and he expects a lot of money if
he gives it up. That’s the way all those ranters thrive; their beer
would cost three halfpence, and they gets sixpence for not having it,
and has it on the sly in their own beds. Go and see old Wisk, but not
a word of what I told you. Only you must come back to me when you have
done what you want with him. No business of mine any more than yourn,
and perhaps the best way to let things go by law, and not be called up
and lose your time, and have to pay for it, and think yourself lucky
if they don’t fine you too. That is all one gets for not winking at a
thief, Bill.”
The truth of this was too manifest to require any acknowledgment; and
Tompkins went to see Mr. Wisk in the taproom, and after much discussion
drove him to his premises, there to see and deal about the wicker
stuff. But he only got half a gross of Sallies, which proved a very
lucky thing afterwards, for Wisk had no more, or at any rate said so,
not liking the price perhaps, for they were good substantial stuff,
which also proved a happy thing before very long. Then Selsey Bill
touched _Spanker_ up, for it was getting on for dark; but he did not
like to pass the _Crooked Billet_ without calling, because he was proud
of being a man of his word.