“It’s the sun, Master Nic; it’s the sun,” said the old man, who was too much wrapped up in his subject to heed the boy’s remarks. “Sun’s a scarce article at home, but here you gets it all day long, and it’s the clouds is scarce. Why, you know summer at home, where the skies seem all like so much sopping wet flannel being squeezed; and not a sign o’ sunshine for six weeks. What’s to grow then?”
“Nothing, I suppose, Sam; but—”
“Of course you wants the water, sir. More sun you gets more water you wants, and that’s why I tiddles it all along through the garden from up above yonder, just ketching it above where it comes over the waterfall.”
“Yes, waterfall, Sam,” cried Nic heartily. “I say, didn’t you catch a lot of fish up there somewhere and bring home one day when my father was out?”
“To be sure I did,” said the old man, now beginning to lend an ear.
“That’s right. I want to catch some too.”
“You’d ketch ’em then, my lad. There’s lots on ’em.”
“Tell me how you caught them. What did you use for bait?”
“Shovel,” said the old man, grinning.
“What?”