“Now listen, Woodden.  Have you looked at that Odontoglossum Pavo, and if so, what do you think of it?” and he nodded towards a plant which stood in the centre of the little group that was placed on the small table beneath the auctioneer’s desk.  It bore a spray of the most lovely white flowers.  On the top petal (if it is a petal), and also on the lip of each of these rounded flowers was a blotch or spot of which the general effect was similar to the iridescent eye on the tail feathers of a peacock, whence, I suppose, the flower was named “Pavo,” or Peacock.

“Yes, master, and I think it the beautifullest thing that ever I saw.  There isn’t a ’glossum in England like that there ’glossum Paving,” he added with conviction, and rocked again as he said the word.  “But there’s plenty after it.  I say they’re a-smelling round that blossom like, like—­dawgs round a rat hole.  And” (this triumphantly) “they don’t do that for nothing.”

“Quite so, Woodden, you have got a logical mind.  But, look here, we must have that ‘Pavo’ whatever it costs.  Now the Governor has sent for me.  I’ll be back presently, but I might be detained.  If so, you’ve got to bid on my behalf, for I daren’t trust any of these agents.  Here’s your authority,” and he scribbled on a card, “Woodden, my gardener, has directions to bid for me.—­S.S.”  “Now, Woodden,” he went on, when he had given the card to an attendant who passed it up to the auctioneer, “don’t you make a fool of yourself and let that ‘Pavo’ slip through your fingers.”

In another instant he was gone.

“What did the master say, sir?” asked Woodden of me.  “That I was to get that there ‘Paving’ whatever it cost?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s what he said.  I suppose it will fetch a good deal—­several pounds.”

“Maybe, sir, can’t tell.  All I know is that I’ve got to buy it as you can bear me witness.  Master, he ain’t one to be crossed for money.  What he wants, he’ll have, that is if it be in the orchid line.”

“I suppose you are fond of orchids, too, Mr. Woodden?”

“Fond of them, sir?  Why, I loves ’em!” (Here he rocked.) “Don’t feel for nothing else in the same way; not even for my old woman” (then with a burst of enthusiasm) “no, not even for the master himself, and I’m fond enough of him, God knows!  But, begging your pardon, sir” (with a pull at his forelock), “would you mind holding that tin of yours a little tighter?  I’ve got to keep an eye on that as well as on ‘O.  Paving,’ and I just see’d that chap with the tall hat alooking at it suspicious.”

After this we separated.  I retired into my corner, while Woodden took his stand by the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the “O.  Paving” and the other on me and my tin case.

An odd fish truly, I thought to myself.  Positive, the old woman; Comparative, his master; Superlative, the orchid tribe.  Those were his degrees of affection.  Honest and brave and a good fellow though, I bet.