WARNED AGAIN!
The breakfast hour had not yet arrived when I got home. I went into the garden to refresh my eyes--a little weary of the solemn uniformity of color in Fordwitch Wood--by looking at the flowers.
Reaching the terrace, in the first place, I heard below me a man's voice, speaking in tones of angry authority, and using language which expressed an intention of turning somebody out of the garden. I at once descended the steps which led to the flower-beds. The man in authority proved to be one of my gardeners; and the man threatened with instant expulsion was the oddly-dressed servant of the friend whom I had just left.
The poor fellow's ugly face presented a picture of shame and contrition, the moment I showed myself. He piteously entreated me to look over it, and to forgive him.
"Wait a little," I said. "Let me see if I have anything to forgive." Iturned to the gardener. "What is your complaint of this man?""He's a trespasser on your grounds, sir. And, his impudence, to say the least of it, is such as I never met with before.""What harm has he done?"
"Harm, sir?"
"Yes--harm. Has he been picking the flowers?"The gardener looked round him, longing to refer me to the necessary evidence, and failing to discover it anywhere. The wretched trespasser took heart of grace, and said a word in his own defence.
"Nobody ever knew me to misbehave myself in a gentleman's garden," he said; "I own, sir, to having taken a peep at the flowers, over the wall.""And they tempted you to look a little closer at them?""That's the truth, sir."
"So you are fond of flowers?"
"Yes, sir. I once failed in business as a nurseryman--but I don't blame the flowers."The delightful simplicity of this was lost on the gardener. I heard the brute mutter to himself: "Gammon!" For once I asserted my authority over my servant.
"Understand this," I said to him: "I don't confine the enjoyment of my garden to myself and my friends. Any well-behaved persons are welcome to come here and look at the flowers. Remember that. Now you may go."Having issued these instructions, I next addressed myself to my friend in the shabby shooting jacket; telling him to roam wherever he liked, and to stay as long as he pleased. Instead of thanking me and using his liberty, he hesitated, and looked thoroughly ill at ease.
"What's the matter now?" I asked.
"I'm afraid you don't know, sir, who it is you are so kind to. I've been something else in my time, besides a nurseryman.""What have you been?"
"A prize-fighter."
If he expected me to exhibit indignation or contempt, he was disappointed. My ignorance treated him as civilly as ever.
"What is a prize-fighter?" I inquired.
The unfortunate pugilist looked at me in speechless bewilderment. I told him that I had been brought up among foreigners, and that I had never even seen an English newspaper for the last ten years. This explanation seemed to encourage the man of few words: it set him talking freely at last. He delivered a treatise on the art of prizefighting, and he did something else which I found more amusing--he told me his name. To my small sense of humor his name, so to speak, completed this delightfully odd man: it was Gloody. As to the list of his misfortunes, the endless length of it became so unendurably droll, that we both indulged in unfeeling fits of laughter over the sorrows of Gloody. The first lucky accident of the poor fellow's life had been, literally, the discovery of him by his present master.
This event interested me. I said I should like to hear how it had happened.
Gloody modestly described himself as "one of the starving lot, sir, that looks out for small errands. I got my first dinner for three days, by carrying a gentleman's portmanteau for him. And he, if you please, was afterwards my master. He lived alone. Bless you, he was as deaf then as he is now. He says to me, 'If you bawl in my ears, I'll knock you down.'
