“All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don’t come.”
“Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?—best lewed garden, this, on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!”
Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart, before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops, between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise his field.
When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next row, turned himself edgewise, and passed through with his buckets swung round, and was about to pass through into another green arcade, but stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder rattle of the handles, while clank clank went the engine and whish whish and sputter the cloud of spray among the leaves.
“Now then, Smiler, come on!” shouted one of the men with the engine, still hidden, but close at hand.
“Hi! Joey,” shouted Smiler.
“What’s the matter?—found a hop-dog?”
“Nay! Here’s a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi’e him a bucket o’ hop-wash?”
“Gahn! Bring that stuff.”
“But I tell ye he’s tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!”