“You do, you dog!” he cried.
I shook my head again.
“No, sir,” I said; “I like learning all about the plants and the pruning. Ike showed me on some dead wood the other day how to graft.”
“Ah, I’ll show you how to do it on live wood some day. There’s a lot more things I should like to show you, but I’ve no glass.”
“No,” I said; “I’ve often wished we had a microscope.”
“A what, Grant?”
“Microscope, sir, to look at the blight and the veins in the plants’ leaves.”
“No, no; I mean greenhouses and forcing-houses, where fruit and vegetables and flowers are brought on early: but wait a bit.”
I did wait a bit, and went on learning, getting imperceptibly to know a good deal about gardening, and so a couple of years slipped away, when one day I was superintending the loading of the cart after seeing that it was properly supported with trestles. Ike was seated astride one of the large baskets as if it were a saddle, and taking off his old hat he began to indulge in a good scratch at his head.
“Lookye here,” he exclaimed suddenly, “why don’t you go to market?”