'Wall, I don't—not ef I kin help it. Anyhow, ef I get 'em I contrive to lose 'em agin. But what was you wantin'?'
'I came to see if you could let us have our winter's onions? White onions, you know. It's all the sort we can do with, up at the house.'
'Onions!' said Mrs. Blumenfeld. 'Why hain't you riz your own onions, I want to know? You've got a garden.'
'That is true, mum,' said Christopher; 'but all the onions as was in it is gone.'
'Then you didn't plant enough.'
'And that's true too,' said Christopher; 'but I can't say as I takes any blame to myself for it.'
'Sakes alive, man! ain't you the gardener?'
'At your service, mum.'
'Wall, then, why, when you were about it, why didn't you sow your seeds accordin' to your needs?'
'I sowed all the seed I had.'