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Updated: May 8, 2025
It was the Skipper, and he was leaning on the gate and looking at the boy John and smiling. "You make a busy day," he repeated. "I think there are soon no more weeds in Sir Scraper's garden." "Oh, yes!" cried John, straightening himself again, and leaning on his trusty hoe. "There'll be just as many I beg your pardon! Good morning! I hope you are well; it is a very fine day.
This astounding statement brought a low cry from John, who had been standing on one foot with joy and on the other with fear, the grave dignity of his new friend filling him with awe. Perhaps he would not be noticed now, when all the grown people were here; perhaps but his thoughts were put to flight by Mr. Scraper's words.
Shelf above shelf of them, piled in heaps, lying in solitary splendor, arranged in patterns, John had never, in his wildest dreams, seen so many shells. Half the poetry of his little life had been in the lovely forms and colors that lay behind the locked glass doors in Mr. Scraper's parlor; for Mr. Scraper was a collector of shells in a small way.
Trotty Veck takes his own umbrella from the hall the cotton one; and Sydney Scraper's paletot lined with silk has been brought back by Jobbins, who entirely mistook it for his own. Wiggle has discontinued telling stories about the ladies he has killed. Snooks does not any more think it gentlemanlike to blackball attorneys.
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