“Sixpenn’orth of flowers and strawberries—good ones.”
“Oh, get out!” he said gruffly, and he half turned away. “We’ve no time for picking sixpenn’orths, boy. Run up into the road to the greengrocer’s shop.”
My face grew scarlet, and the beautiful garden seemed as if it was under a cloud instead of the full blaze of sunshine, while I turned upon my heel and was walking straight back.
“Here!”
I walked on.
“Hi, boy!” shouted old Brownsmith.
I turned round, and he was signalling to me with the whole of his crooked arm.
“Come on,” he shouted, and he thrust a hand and the greater part of his arm into one of his big pockets, and pulled out one of those curved buckhorn-handled knives, which he opened with his white teeth.
He did not look quite so grim now, as he said:
“Come o’ purpose, eh?”