“Oh, no,” said Vane, confusedly. “Well, I was thinking about something I was making.”
“Thought so. Well, I am glad I’m not such a Hobby-Bob sort of a fellow as you are. Syme says you’re a bit of a genius, ever since you made his study clock go; but you’re the worst bowler, batter, and fielder I know; you’re not worth twopence at football; and if one plays at anything else with you—spins a top, or flies a kite, or anything of that kind—you’re never satisfied without wanting to make the kite carry up a load, or making one top spin on the top of another, and—”
“Take me altogether, I’m the most cranky, disagreeable fellow you ever knew, eh?” said Vane, interrupting.
“Show me anyone who says so, and I’ll punch his head,” cried Macey, eagerly.
“There he goes. No; he’s out of sight now.”
“What, old Distie? Pooh! he’s nobody, only a creole, and don’t count.”
The gardener’s cottage stood back from the road; its porch covered with roses, and the little garden quite a blaze of autumn flowers; and as they reached it, Vane paused for a moment to admire them.
“Hallo!” cried Macey, “going to improve ’em?”
“They don’t want it,” said Vane, quietly. “I was thinking that you always see better flowers in cottage gardens than anywhere else.”
At that moment the gardener’s wife came to the door, smiling at her visitors, and Vane recollected the object of his visit.