rry's week in the
house, I was once more able to stroll round and depend upon Andrew for
entertainment.

He invited me to the dairy to see him turn the hand cream-separator,
and I remained to dry the discs out of its bowl while he washed them.
He had a conversational turn, and in his choice of subjects was a
patriot. He never went out of his realm for imported themes, but
entirely confined his patronage to those at hand. This day his
discourse was of blow-flies; I cared not though it had been of manure.
I had knocked around the sharp corners of life sufficiently to have
got a sensible adjustment of weights and measures, refinements and
vulgarities. Besides, I gratefully remembered the tears Andrew had
shed during my illness, and bore in mind that many a dandy who could
please me by his phraseology of choice anecdotes could not be more
than "bored" though I might die in torture at his feet.

"My word! I'm thankful for the winter for one thing," he began, "and
that's because there ain't any blow-flies. They'd give you the pip in
the summer. They used to be here blowin' everything they come across.
They'd blow the cream if we left it a day. They'd blow you if you
didn't look sharp. I had Whiskey taught to ketch 'em. Here, Whiskey!
Whiskey!" and as that mongrel appeared, his master tossed him pellets
of curds dipped in cream, and grinned delightedly as they were
fiercely snapped. "He thinks it's blow-flies. Great little Whiskey!
good little Whiskey, catch 'em blow-flies. By Jove! I've had enough
of farming," continued he, "it's the God-forsakenest game, but me
grandma won't let me chuck it. I notice no one with any sense stays
farmin'. They all get a job on the railway, or take to auctioneering,
or something with money in it. You're always scratchin' on a farm. You
should have been here in the summer when the tomatoes was ripe.
Couldn't get rid of 'em for a song--couldn't get cases enough. They
rotted in the field till the stink of them was worse than a chow's
camp, an' what didn't rot was just cooked in the sun. Peaches the
same, an' great big melons for a shilling a dozen. That's farming for
you! The only time you could sell things would be when you haven't got
'em. Whiskey can eat melon like a good 'un, and grapes too." Andrew
now threw out the wash-up water, pitching it on to Whiskey, who went
away whimpering aggrievedly, much to the delight of his master, and
illustrating that even the favourite pet of a youth has so