"Oh, bother," said Mary. "If it isn't Mr. Druitt again."
"Good mornin', mum," said the visitor, diffidently. "Would you be
doing with an egg or so?"
Mr. Druitt had been introduced by Mrs. Goudie as the higgler, or
itinerant poulterer and greengrocer, who served the house in Mr.
Bates' time. He was a thin middle-aged man, with light watery eyes, a
straggling beard, and an astoundingly dilatory manner. He used to pull
his pony and cart into the hedge or bank by the roadside, and leave
them there an unconscionable time, while he pottered about the back
doors of his customers, offering the articles that he had brought with
him, or trying to obtain orders for other articles that he would bring
next week; and although apparently so shy himself, no bruskness in
others ever seemed to rebuff him. His arrival now broke up the
breakfast party, and was accepted as a signal that the day's labors
must really be attacked. Mrs. Goudie and Mary pushed back their chairs
with a horrid scrooping noise, Mavis got up briskly, the baby awoke
and began to cry.
"No, thank you, Mr. Druitt. Nothing this morning."
"I've some sweet-hearted cabbages outside."
"No, thank you."
"It's wonderful late to get 'em with any heart to 'em.
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