“I wouldn’t trust the likes o’ them with even a penn’orth of flowers on tick,” said the farmer.
“And right you are, young man. You keep what you has got and trust no one with goods until you gets money for ’em. Good morning to you.”
“But, I say, look you here, missis.”
“What is it?”
“You look a tidy sort. Maybe I’ll give you some of these poppies. You’re safe to sell ’em, and you can pay me to-morrow. Here’s a shilling’s worth—these pink ones, and some white, and a bunch of green. You bring me the money to-morrow, won’t you?”
The young fellow picked up a great bunch of the flowers, thrust them into Poll’s hands, and turned to attend to another customer.
She stood still for a moment too surprised to move. Then, with a fierce colour in her cheeks, strode across the market to the corner where she had asked Betsy Peters to wait for her.
“Yere, Betsy,” she said, thrusting all the flowers into the woman’s basket, “ef there is a thing as sells, it’s a white or a pink poppy. Seems as if the very of the stingiest of the ladies couldn’t stan’ up agin’ a pink poppy. You’ll owe me a shilling for these, Betsy, and you’ll pay me when yer can. Good morning to yer; I’m off back to Jill.”