'It ain't for a man properly to say what he can do or what he can't do; words is but breath, they say; and those as know a man can give a pretty good guess what he's good for; but, however, when he's speakin' to them as don't know him, perhaps it ain't no more but fair that he should be allowed to speak for himself. Now if I say that accordin' to the best o' my knowledge and belief, what I offer you _is_ the right kind o' help, you won't think it's brag or bluster, I hope?' 'Why shouldn't I?' said the little woman. But Christopher thought the tone of the words was not discouraging. 'They does allays practise fence,' he thought to himself. 'Well, mum, if you hev ever been up to our place in the summer-time, you may hev seen our garden; and to a lady o' your experience I needn't to say no more.' 'Wall,' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, by way of conceding so much, 'I'll allow Colonel Gainsborough has a pretty fair gardener, ef he _hes_ some furrin notions.' 'I'll bring them furrin notions to your help, mum,' said Mr. Bounder eagerly. 'I know my business as well as any man on this side or that side either. It's no boastin' to say that.' 'Sounds somethin' like it. But what'll the colonel do without you, or the colonel's garden? that's what I can't make out. Hev you and he hed a falling out?' And the speaker raised herself up straight and looked full at her visitor. 'There's nothin' like that possible!' said Mr. Bounder solemnly. 'The colonel ain't agoin' to do without me, my woman. No more can't I do with out the colonel, I may say. I've lived in the family now this twenty year; and as long as I can grow spinach they ain't agoin' to eat no other--without it's yours, mum,' Christopher added, with a change of tone; 'or yours and mine. You see, the grounds is so near, that goin' over to one ain't forsakin' the other; and the colonel, he hasn't really space and place for a man that can do what I can do.' 'An' what is it you propose?' 'That you should take me, mum, for your head man.' The two were standing now, quite still, looking into one another's eyes; a little sly audacity in those of Christopher, while a smile played about his lips that was both knowing and conciliating. Mrs. Blumenfeld eyed him gravely, with the calm air of one who was quite his match. Christopher could tell nothing from her face. 'I s'pose,' she said, 'you'll want ridiculous wages?' 'By no means, mum!' said Christopher, waving his hand. 'There never was nothin' ridiculous about _you_. I'll punch anybody's head that says it.' Mrs. Blumenfeld shook the last remnant of soil from the celery roots, and handed the bunch to Christopher. 'There,' she said; 'you may take them along with you--you'll want 'em for dinner. An' I'll send up the onions. An' the rest I'll think about. Good day to ye!' Christopher went home well content. CHAPTER XXVIII. _STRAWBERRIES_.