“If I thought you were the sort of boy who couldn’t be trusted, my lad, you wouldn’t be here,” said Mr Solomon quietly. “Bit more fat, mother.”
I brightened up, and he saw it.
“Why, of course not, my lad. Didn’t I trust you, and send you in among my choice grapes, and ripe figs, and things. There, say no more about it. Gardeners don’t grow fruit to satisfy their mouths, but their eyes, and their minds, my lad. Eat away. Don’t let a squabble with a schoolboy who hasn’t learned manners spoil your supper. We’ve never had any children; but if we had, Grant, I don’t think they would be like that.”
“They make me miserable when they are at home,” said Mrs Solomon, speaking almost for the first time.
“Don’t see why they should,” said Mr Solomon, with his voice sounding as if his tongue were a little mixed up with his supper. “Why, they don’t come here.”
“They might be made such different boys if properly trained.”
“They’ll come right by and by, but for the present, Grant, you steer clear of them. They’re just like a couple of young slugs, or so much blight in the garden now.”
The supper was ended, and Mrs Solomon, in a very quiet, quick way, cleared the cloth, and after she had done, placed a Bible on the table, out of which Mr Solomon read a short chapter, and then shook hands with me and sent me away happy.
“Good night, my lad!” he said. “It’s all strange to you now, and we’re not noisy jolly sort of people, but you’re welcome here, and we shall get on.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Solomon in a very cold stern way that did not seem at all inviting or kind. “Come along and I’ll show you your bed-room.”