"Hi, boy!" shouted old Brownsmith.
I turned round, and he was signalling to me with the whole of his
crooked arm.
"Come on," he shouted, and he thrust a hand and the greater part of his
arm into one of his big pockets, and pulled out one of those curved
buckhorn-handled knives, which he opened with his white teeth.
He did not look quite so grim now, as he said:
"Come o' purpose, eh?"
"Yes," I said.
"Ah! well, I won't send you back without 'em, only I don't keep a shop."
I looked rather haughty and consequential, I believe, but the looks of
such a boy as I made no impression, and he began to cut here and there
moss, and maiden's blush, and cabbage roses--simple old-fashioned
flowers, for the great French growers had not filled England with their
beautiful children, and a gardener in these days would not have believed
in the possibility of a creamy _Gloire de Dijon_ or that great
hook-thorned golden beauty _Marechal Niel_.
He cut and cut, long-stalked flowers with leaf and bud, and thrust them
into his left hand, his knife cutting and his hand grasping the flower
in one movement, while his eye selected the best blossom at a glance.
At last there were so many that I grew fidgety.
"I said sixpenn'orth, sir, flowers and strawberries," I ventured to
remark.
"Not deaf, my lad," he replied with a grim smile. "Here, let's get some
of these."
These were pinks and carnations, of which he cut a number, pushing one
of the cats aside with his foot so that it should not be in his way.
"Here you are!" he cried. "Mind the thorns. My roses have got plenty
to keep off pickers and stealers. Now, what next?"
"I did want some strawberries," I said, "but--"
"Where's your basket, my hearty?"