They were duly examined and praised: and when they had been divided into presents for their neighbours in the little Cornish fishing port, the Colonel, who had, after long and arduous service in the East, hung up his sword to take to spade and trowel, went off to see to his nectarines, peaches, pears, grapes and figs in his well-walled garden facing the south, and running down to the rocky shores of the safe inlet of Ydoll Brea, his son Gwyn following to help—so it was called.
The boy, a sturdy, frank-looking lad, helped his father a great deal in the garden, but not after the ordinary working fashion. That fell to the lot of Ebenezer Gelch, a one-eyed Cornishman, who was strangely imbued with the belief that he was the finest gardener in the West of England, and held up his head very high in consequence. Gwyn helped his father, as he did that morning, by following him out into the sunny slope, and keeping close behind.
The Colonel stopped before a carefully-trained tree, where the great pears hung down from a trellis erected against the hot granite rock, and stood admiring them.
“Nearly ripe, father?” asked Gwyn.
“No, my boy, not nearly,” said the Colonel, softly raising one in his hand. “They may hang more than a month yet. We shall beat the Jersey folk this year.”
“Yes, father,” said Gwyn, and he followed to where the Colonel stopped before a peach tree, and stooped to pick up a downy red-cheeked fellow which had fallen during the night.
“Not fully grown, Gwyn, but it’s a very fine one,” said the Colonel.
“Yes father—a beauty. Shall I take it in?”
“No, not good enough. Eat it, my boy.”
Gwyn did not need any further telling, and the peach disappeared, the stone being sent flying into the sea.