“It was lucky I came in,” continued the boy, looking at me tauntingly. “If I hadn’t come I don’t know how many he wouldn’t have had.”
“Mr Brownsmith,” I said, as I smarted with pain, rage, and the desire to get hold of that cane once more, and use it, “I found a peach lying on the ground, and I was going to pick it up.”
“And eat it?” said the gardener without looking at me.
“Eat it! No,” I said hotly, “I can go amongst fruit without wanting to eat it like a little child.”
I looked at him indignantly, for he seemed to be suspecting me, he was so cold and hard, and distant in his manner.
“Mr Brownsmith always trusted me amongst his fruit,” I said angrily.
“Humph!” said Mr Solomon, “and so you weren’t going to eat the peach?”
“He was; I saw him. It was close up to his mouth.”
“It is not true,” I cried.
“He isn’t fit to be trusted in here, and I shall tell papa how I saved the peaches. He won’t like it when he hears.”