again, "Old man, are you the gardener?" Of course a person looking down carelessly on the stooping figure of _any_ man, and seeing nothing but a faded straw hat, and arms and feet and ankles bent together, might easily think him decrepit with age. Some things touch off my temper. But I answered, humbly, "I am the gardener, madam." "How much do you ask for your strawberries?" "The gentleman who owns this place does not sell his strawberries. He gives them away, if he likes people. How much do you ask for _your_ strawberries?" "What a nice old gentleman! Is he having those picked to give away?" "He is having these picked for his breakfast." "Don't you think he'd like you to give me those, and pick him some more?" "I fear not, madam." "Nevertheless, you might. He'd never know." "I think he'd find it out." "You are not afraid of him, are you?" "I am when he gets mad." "Does he treat you badly?" "If he does, I always forgive him." "He doesn't seem to provide you with very many clothes." I picked on. "But you seem nicely fed." I picked on. "What is his name, old man? Don't you like to talk?" "Adam Moss."