III.
First to break covert was Frederick, Mr. Fletcher's assistant. Abnormally steeped in vice for one so young (this wretched boy was but fourteen), with the coolness of a matured evil-doer Frederick extinguished his cigarette-end by pressing it against his boot-heel; dropped it amongst other ends, toilsomely collected, in a tin box; placed the box in its prepared hole; covered this with earth and leaves; hooked a basket of faded weeds upon his arm, and so appeared in Mr. Marrapit's path with bent back, diligently searching.
Mr. Marrapit inquired: “Your task?”
“Weedin',” said Frederick.
“Weeding what?”
“Weeds,” Frederick told him, a little surprised.
Mr. Marrapit rapped sharply: “Say 'sir'.”
“Sir,” said Frederick, making to move.
Mr. Marrapit peered at the basket. “You have remarkably few.”
“There ain't never many,” Frederick said with quiet pride—“there ain't never many if you keep 'em down by always doin' your job.”
Mr. Marrapit pointed: “They grow thick at your feet, sir!”
In round-eyed astonishment Frederick peered low. “They spring up the minute your back's turned, them weeds. They want a weed destroyer what you pours out of a can.”
“You are the weed-destroyer,” Mr. Marrapit said sternly. “Be careful. It is very true that they spring up whenever my back is turned. Be careful.” He passed on.
“Blarst yer back,” murmured Frederick, bending his own to the task.