He led the way out of the pit, and round by the grounds, where different men were at work mowing and sweeping, the short cut grass smelling delicious in the morning air. He spoke to first one and then another in a short business-like way, and then went on with me to one of the great conservatories up by the house.
“I might put you to that sort of work, Grant,” he said, giving his head a backward jerk; “but that wants no brains. Work under glass does. You want to work with your hands and your head. Now we’ll have a tidy up in here. Sir Francis likes plenty of bright flowers.”
I should have liked to stop looking about as soon as we were in the large glass building, which was one mass of bloom; but following Mr Solomon’s example I was soon busily snipping off dead flowers and leaves, so as to make the various plants tidy; and I was extremely busy in one corner over this when I suddenly found that Mr Solomon was watching me, and that a big bell was ringing somewhere.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding his head in a satisfied way. “That’s what I want. You don’t know much yet, but you will. If I was to set one of those men to do that he’d have knocked off half the buds, and—what have you been doing there?”
“I tied up those two flower-stems,” I said. “Wasn’t it right, sir?”
“Right and wrong, my lad,” he said, whipping out his knife and cutting them free. “Look here.”
He took a piece of wet matting—a mere strip—and tied them up again, with his big fingers moving so quickly and cleverly that I wondered.
“There, that’s the way. Looks the same as you did it, eh?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling.
“No, it isn’t. You tied yours in front of the stem, with an ugly knot to rub and fret it, and make a sore place when the windows were open. I’ve put a neat band round mine, and the knot rests on the stick.”