Barton was too proud to join in the sport; he despised inferior game.
It might amuse new chums, but it was below the notice of the old
trooper, whose business had been for many years to hunt and shoot
bushrangers and black-fellows, not to mention his regular duty as
flagellator.
Gleeson that morning was cutting up his pumpkin plants with an axe.
"Good morning, Mr. Gleeson," said Philip. "Is anything the matter?
Is it a snake you are killing?"
Gleeson began to laugh, a little ashamed of himself, and said, "Look
at these cursed pumpkins. I think they are bewitched. Every morning
I come to see if the fruit is growing, but this is what they do. As
soon as they get as big as a small potato, they begin to wither and
turn yellow, and not a bit more will they grow. So I'm cutting the
blessed things to pieces."
Philip saw that about half the runners had been already destroyed.
He said, "Don't chop any more, Gleeson, and I'll show you how to make
pumpkins grow."
He picked up a feather in the fowl-yard, and went inside the garden.
"Now look at these flowers closely; they are not all alike. This
flower will never turn into a pumpkin, but this one will if it gets a
little of the dust from the first flower. The bees or other insects
usually take the dust from one flower to the other, but I suppose
there are no bees about here just now?"
Philip then dusted every flower that was open and said: "Now, my
friend, put away the axe, and you will have fruit here yet.
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