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Kit and Kitty

better, when she has made tracks. There’s an old buffer coming[183] to see the house, and keep our Kitty in order. But I can do what I like with her. She’s smashed taters after the real thing. Be of good cheer, Pots; I should say next Wednesday, or Thursday, would see you a reformed and happy character. Ta, ta, and remember me in your prayers.” “I say, Downy, just one little thing,” said Sir Cumberleigh, recalling him with some hesitation. “You must not be offended, old fellow; but I should be so much obliged, if you would drop your habit of calling me ‘Pots’ so frequently. It sounds so personal; although of course it has no application to me as yet. Why, you might even do it before your sister, and then it would be so—so unromantic. You see what I mean; no offence, you know.” “I tell you I won’t have her called my sister. She is no sister of mine, nor in any way connected. If you call her my sister any more, I shall look upon it as an insult.” “A very great compliment, I should say,” Sir Cumberleigh pondered, when his visitor was gone; “what the deuce makes him get in such a wax about it? A fellow with such a batter-pudding face might be proud to call such a girl his sister. Oh, I see why it is, what a thick I must be! If she were his sister, he would be ashamed to be a party to this little plant. I don’t like the look of it, and that’s all about it. But such a poor devil must not stick at trifles. Sixty thousand pounds would set me on my legs again. And it is not to be had by lying down and rolling. And the sweetest girl in London, too without any cheek or high faluting. I can soon break her in to any pace I choose. I am not a bad fellow, only so unlucky. If this comes off, I’ll go to church every Sunday. But I’ll take uncommon good care all the same that Master Johnny Dory does not collar too much of the rhino. I hate that young fellow, he is just like a yellow slug crawling in a mop.” <hr class="chap" /></div> <h2>CHAPTER XXX. BASKETS.</h2> 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[184] 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[185] 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. [186] 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. [187] “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[188] 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 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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