Chapter Fifteen.
In the Market.
I could almost have fancied that there was some truth in Ike’s declaration about old Basket or Bonyparty, as he called him, for certainly he seemed to quicken his pace as we drew nearer; and so it was that, as we turned into the busy market, and the horse made its way to one particular spot at the south-east corner, Ike triumphantly pointed to the church clock we had just passed.
“What did I tell yer?” he exclaimed with a grim smile of satisfaction on his countenance; “he picked up them lost ten minutes, and here we are—just four.”
What a scene it seemed to me. The whole place packed with laden cart, wagon, and light van. Noise, confusion, and shouting, pleasant smells and evil smells—flowers and crushed cabbage; here it was peas and mint, there it was strawberries; then a whole wagon announced through the sides of its piled-up baskets that the load was cauliflowers.
For a time I could do nothing but gape and stare around at the bustling crowd and the number of men busily carrying great baskets on the top of porters’ knots. Women, too, in caps, ready to put the same great pad round forehead and make it rest upon their shoulders, and bear off great boxes of fruit or baskets of vegetable.
Here I saw a complete stack of bushel baskets being regularly built up from the unloading of a wagon, to know by the scent they were early peas; a little farther on, some men seemed to be making a bastion for the defence of the market by means of gabions, which, to add to the fancy, were not filled with sand, but with large round gravel of a pale whitish-yellow, only a closer inspection showed that the contents were new potatoes.
The strawberries took my attention, though, most, for I felt quite a feeling of sorrow for Old Brownsmith as I saw what seemed to me to be such a glut of the rich red fruit that I was sure those which we had brought up would not sell.