A little farther on, a golden tawny Jefferson plum was taken from a tree, for the wasps had carved a little hole in the side, and this was handed to the boy and eaten. A nectarine which had begun to shrink came next; and from the hottest corner of the garden a good-tempered looking fig, which seemed to have opened a laughing mouth as if full, and rejoicing in its ripeness. After this a rosy apple or two and several Bon Chrétien pears, richly yellow, were picked up and transferred to the boy’s pocket, and the garden was made tidy once more, evidently to the owner’s satisfaction. Certainly to that of his son, who was most diligent in disposing of the fruit in this way.
Then the Colonel sauntered into the little sloping vinery where the purple and amber grapes were hanging, and Gwyn thrust in his head; but as there were no berries to be eaten, and it was very hot, he drew back and went up the slope toward the wall at the top, carefully peeling one of the pears with a fishy pocket-knife.
He was in the act of throwing a long curl of peel over the wall when a sun-browned face appeared as if on purpose to receive it, and started back. Then there was a scrambling noise from the other side, as the face disappeared very suddenly, and Gwyn burst out laughing.
“Hurt yourself?” he cried.
There was the sound of scrambling, and the face re-appeared.
“What did you do that for?” cried the owner.
“To get rid of the peel, stupid.”
“Well, you might have chucked a pear instead.”
“All right—catch.”
A pear was thrown, dexterously caught, and the newcomer immediately took a magnificent bite out of it.