Well, you two chaps have picked a lot." I soon grew quite at home at Old Brownsmith's, and found him very kind.
Ike, too, in his rough way, quite took to me--at least if anything had to be done he was offended if I asked another of the men.

I worked hard at the fruit-picking, and kept account when Ike laid straw or fern over the tops of the bushel and half-bushel baskets, and placed sticks across, lattice fashion, to keep the apples and pears in.

Then of a night I used to transfer the writing on the slate to a book, and tell Old Brownsmith what I had put down, reading the items over and summing up the quantities and the amounts they fetched when the salesmen's accounts came from Covent Garden.
The men and women about the place--all very quiet, thoughtful people-- generally had a smile for me when I said good-morning, and I went on capitally, my old troubles being distant and the memories less painful day by day.
But somehow I never got on with Shock.

I didn't want to make a companion of him, but I did not want him to be an enemy, and that he always seemed to be.
He never threw lumps of soil or apples or potatoes at me now; but he would often make-believe to be about to hurl something, and if he could not get away because of his work he always turned his back.
"He doesn't like me, Ike," I said to the big gardener one day.
"No, he don't, that's sartain," said Ike.

"He's jealous of you, like, because the ganger makes so much of you." "Mr Brownsmith would make as much of him if he would be smart and clean, and act like other boys," I said.
"Yes, but that's just what he won't do, won't Shock.