Discovered on returning home that the Member for SARK had not at all exaggerated the facts picturing disaster to our onion-bed. This portion of the garden had been disappointing from the first. Early in the Spring, when hope beat high, and the young gardener's fancy lightly turned to thoughts of large crops, SARK and I were resting after a frugal luncheon, when ARPACHSHAD suddenly appeared at the open window. I knew from his beaming face that something was wrong.
Perhaps I should explain that ARPACHSHAD is our head gardener. We have no other, therefore he is the head. Out of the garden he is known as PETER WALLOPS. It was SARK who insisted upon calling him ARPACHSHAD. SARK had noticed that about the time of the Flood there was singular deliberation in entering upon the marriage state. Matrimony did not seem to be thought of till a man had turned the corner of a century. SHEM, himself, for example, was fully a hundred before his third son, ARPACHSHAD, was born. But ARPACHSHAD was already a husband and a father at thirty-five.
"That," said SARK, "is a remarkable circumstance that has escaped the notice of the commentators. It indicates unusual forwardness of character and a habit of swift decision. We hear nothing more of ARPACHSHAD, but we may be sure he made things move. Now what we want in this garden is a brisk man, a fellow always up to date, if not ahead of it. Let us encourage WALLOPS by calling him ARPACHSHAD."
WALLOPS on being consulted said, he thought it ought to be a matter of another two shillings a-week in his wages; to which I demurred, and it was finally compromised on the basis of a rise of a shilling a-week. As far as I have observed, SARK'S device, like many others he has put forward, has nothing in it. WALLOPS couldn't be slower in going round than is ARPACHSHAD. The only time he ever displays any animation is when he discovers some fresh disaster. When things are going well (which isn't often) he is gloomy and apprehensive of an early change for the worse. When the worst comes he positively beams over it. Difficult to say whether he enjoys himself more in an over-wet season, or in one of drought. His special and ever-recurring joy is the discovery of some insect breaking out in a fresh place. He is always on the look-out for the Mottled Amber Moth, or the Frit-fly, or the Currant Scale, or the Apple-bark Beetle, or the Mustard Beetle,—"Black Jack," as he familiarly calls him. To see, as is not unfrequent, a promising apple-tree, cherry-tree, or damson-tree, fading under the attack of the caterpillars of the Winter Moth, makes ARPACHSHAD a new man. His back unbends, his wrinkles smooth out, the gleam of faded youth reillumines his countenance, and his eyes melt in softer glance.
"The flies hev got at them honions," he said, on this Spring afternoon. "I thought they would, and I reckon they're done for. Ever seen a honion-fly, Sir? A nice, lively, busy-looking thing; pretty reddish-grey coat, with a whitish face, and pale grey wings. About this time of the year it lays its eggs on the sheath of the onion-leaf, and within a week you've got the larvey burrowing down into the bulb; after which, there's hardly any hope for your honion."
"Can nothing be done to save them?" SARK asked. As far me, I was too down-hearted to speak.
"Well," said ARPACHSHAD, ruefully, not liking the prospect of interfering with beneficent Nature, "if you was to get a bag of soot, wait about till a shower was a coming on, carefully sprinkle the plant, and let the soot wash in, that might save a few here and there. Or if you were to get a can of paraffin, and syringe them, it would make the fly sit up. But I don't know as how it's worth the trouble. Nater will have its way, and, if the fly wants the honion, who are we that we should say it nay? I think, TOBY, M.P., if I was you, I'd let things take their swing. It's a terrible thing to go a interfering with Nater."
But we didn't follow ARPACHSHAD'S advice. Having undertaken to run this garden, we were determined to do it thoroughly; so I got SARK to sweep out the flues of the furnace in the greenhouse, in the course of which he broke several panes of glass, not expecting, so he explained, to find the handle of his brush so near the roof. We half filled a sack with soot, and carried it to the onion-bed. Then we waited for a wet day, usually plentiful enough in haymaking time, now long deferred. ARPACHSHAD insisted that we were to make quite sure that rain was coming—then sprinkle the soot over the unsuspectiong onion. "We waited just too long, not starting till the rain began to fall. Found it exceedingly unpleasant handling the soot under conditions of moisture. But, as SARK said, having put our hands to the soot-bag, we were not going to turn back. Nor did we till we had completed the task, ARPACHSHAD looking on, cheered only by the hope that the heavy rain would wash the soot off before it could have any effect on the fly. On the whole, the task proved productive of reward. Either ARPACHSHAD had been mistaken, and the crop had not been attacked by the fly, or the soot had done its work. Anyhow, the bed bloomed and blossomed, and, at the time I left for Midlothian, was looking exceedingly well. Then came SARK'S telegram, as described in the last chapter. After the fly came the mildew. Close on the heels, or rather the wings, of the Anthomyia Ceparum, fell the Peronospora Schleideniana.
"It isn't often it happens," said ARPACHSHAD, rubbing his hands gleefully;—"but, when you get one on the top of t'other, you don't look for much crop in that particular year."