“Not do better, James Ellis? Man, what do you say to that?”
Chapter Twelve.
James Ellis did not say anything to “that” for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand.
For there, to his utter astonishment, was John Grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. A few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent over
the plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. After cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when James Ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by Mrs Mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned.
By that time the shoot was neatly taken off—cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin.
Then Grange’s hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place.