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!”