The Count of Monte Cristo

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had one nectarine, only one--well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall;
a splendid nectarine--I never ate a better."

"You ate it?"

"That is to say, the half that was left--you understand; it was
exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels; like
Mere Simon's son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But this
year," continued the horticulturist, "I'll take care it shall not
happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch
when the strawberries are ripe." Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man
has a devouring passion in his heart, as every fruit has its worm;
that of the telegraph man was horticulture. He began gathering the
grape-leaves which screened the sun from the grapes, and won the heart
of the gardener. "Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?" he
said.