“Why, what is it, Uncle Barnabas?”
“Open it!” directed the old man laconically.
With the feeling that he was opening his coffin, David unstrapped the telescope and lifted the cover. A little exclamation of pleasure escaped him. The telescope held big red apples, and it held nothing more. David quickly bit into one.
“I know from just which particular tree these come,” he said, “from that humped, old one in the corner of the orchard nearest the house.”
“Yes,” allowed Barnabas, “that’s jest the one––the one under which you and her allers set and purtended you were studyin’ your lessons.” 252
David’s eyes grew luminous in reminiscence.
“I haven’t forgotten the tree––or her––or the old days, Uncle Barnabas.”
“I knowed you hadn’t, Dave!”
Again David’s heart sank at the confidence in the tone which betokened the faith reposed, but he would give the old man a good time anyway before he took his destiny by the throat.
“Wouldn’t you like to go through the capitol?” he asked.