“It’s half-past two,” he said. “The slant of the sun on the leaves ought to tell you that.”
I was amused, interested in the man; he was so odd and quaint. “I’ve not eaten my lunch yet,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll share it with me.”
“I was wondering if you’d invite me,” he replied. “I’m rather hungry.”
I had, luckily, enough for two. Slices of ham, some cheese, a loaf of new bread, and a full flask. Very soon we were eating together like old friends.
In an inconsequent way he asked me what I thought of the name of Noakes.
I said it was as good as any other.
“Let’s have it Noakes, then,” he said, laughing again. A very merry man.
“About this garden of yours, Mr. Noakes?” I asked.
He tapped his wooden box and said, “If you want to know, I’m a herbalist. You can scarcely call me a civilised being, except on occasions when I do go among my fellow men to winter.” He pulled a cap and a pair of gloves out of his pocket. “My titles to respectability,” he said.
“And in the Spring?”