Gathering Pippins.
I did not understand it at the time, but that accident made me a very excellent friend in the shape of Ike, the big ugly carter and packer, for after his fashion he took me regularly under his wing, and watched over me during the time I was at Old Brownsmith’s.
I’m obliged to stop again over that way of speaking of the market-gardener, but whenever I write “Mr Brownsmith,” or “the old gentleman,” it does not seem natural. Old Brownsmith it always was, and I should not have been surprised to have seen his letters come by the postman directed Old Brownsmith.
Ike used to look quite pleasant when I was busy near him, and while he taught me all he knew, nothing pleased him better than for me to call him from his digging, or hoeing, or planting, to move a ladder, or lift a basket, or perform some other act that was beyond my strength.
All the same, though, he had a way of not showing it.
I had been at the garden about a week when Old Brownsmith began talking about picking some of his pippins to send to market.
“I hear they are making a good price,” he said, “and I shall try a few sieves to-morrow morning, Grant.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, for the sound of apple-picking was pleasant.
“I suppose if I were to send you up one of the apple trees with a basket, you would throw yourself out and break one of your limbs.”
“Oh no, sir!” I said. “I could climb one of the trees and pick the apples without doing that.”