‘Very likely,’ Oliver answered, philosophically at first; and then he proposed quickly, ‘Give us a lesson, Dadd?’ ‘You ain’t above taking it,’ said Jack Dadd, nodding, ‘though your ass of a man may be. But you don’t suppose I’m going to put a spoke in my own wheel, by telling you how to be my successful rival at the show?’ Jack was not in earnest in his refusal, for he was naturally obliging and good-natured, while dealing with customers who were mostly women gave him a habit of civility. But he considered it smart and out of shop to appear knowing, selfish, and blustering, just as he reckoned it spirited and dashing to use bad language on occasions, without entering much into the meaning of the words. Oliver had fallen out of knowledge of the lad, and was not certain either of his simplicity or his affectation, so he changed a little in his tack. ‘What would you say to setting up a field naturalists’ society in Friarton, and having occasional excursions to furnish a correct catalogue of the flora of this district of England—not a bad district for the purpose?’ suggested Oliver. Oliver’s mind had gone off to a version of the pursuit of herbs in which there should be only the mildest species of rivalry. ‘If we were to tramp whole days,’ he said to himself sanguinely, after what he half hoped was an inspiration, ‘over pastures, through woods, and down the centre of ditches, crying “Eureka!” with one consent, when we came upon an outlying specimen of nettle, we should assuredly hob-nob together before we had gone out three times.’ ‘Oh! bother, no,’ said Jack, throwing a bucketful of cold water on the first spark of the project. ‘There is some sense in growing vegetables and fruit, and even garden flowers—though the breakjaw names of the last is enough to stop the business—I mean, of course, the last things out in the flower line, for nobody cares about the poor old things that had no show along with their scent, like cottage bonnets and short skirts, which mother will tell you were so modest and tidy. But to take the trouble to hunt up and nickname weeds, I call sheer waste of body and mind, fit only for pottering gentlefolks, schoolmasters, and fogies of that kidney, or for your would be geniuses among the working-men. You would have a pretty sprinkling of the lowest ruck wanting an excuse to be off from a day’s work, and expecting you to pay them for joining your society. I tell you, Constable, it don’t pay—either him or anyone else—to take a working-man from his work and set him up as a genius. Just you see how it would answer with your bakers. Besides, I, for one, don’t care for being mixed up with every blacksmith and carter who takes it into his conceited noddle that he has a turn for gathering weeds and storing trash.’ And Jack strutted a little as he walked, and puffed out his pink and white cheeks.