I leaned on the fence that separated us and passed the time of day with him.
He was cordial, as he always was.
“Nice hay weather,” said I, a phrase that I had picked up very easily and worked a good deal.
“Yes, if it wasn’t the Sabbath,” said he, “or if my grass land was a leetle further away.”
“Mr. Adams,” said I, “I picked something up the other day that I think belongs to you.”
His manner, which had been warm, became frigid as he said, “I guess not. I haven’t missed anything.”
“Isn’t this yours?” said I, producing the pipe.
He looked me coldly in the eye and said, “I never saw that before.”
I, on my part, saw something that I had not seen before. I put the pipe into my pocket, feeling that I had put my foot in it.
Anxious to make amends, I pulled out a cigar and said, “Have one.”