“Oh, it won’t break my back; I’m used to it. Well, how do you like King’s Castor?”
“Very much. The place is old and quaint, and I like the country. The people are a little distant at present. They are not all so sociable as you are.”
“Ah, they don’t know you yet. There: that’s done. Now I’m going to stick those peas.”
He thrust the dibber into the earth, kicked the soil off his heavy boots, and came out on to the path rubbing his hands and looking at them.
“Shake hands with you another time.”
“To be sure. Going to stick those peas, are you?”
“Yes. I’ve the sticks all ready.”
The old man went to the top of the path, and into a nook where, already sharpened, were about a dozen bundles of clean-looking ground-birch sticks full of twigs for the pea tendrils to hold on by as they climbed.
The old fellow smiled genially, and there was something very pleasant in his clear blue eyes, florid face, and thick grey beard, which—a peculiarity in those days—he wore cut rather short, but innocent of razor.
“Shall I carry a bundle or two down?” said the curate.