Truly it seemed so.
“How—how much do you want?” faltered Bob. He was caught red-handed. He could not deny it. And the apple tree had seemed so isolated—so far from any house.
“Wa’al, son, them apples’ll cost ye about a dollar,” said the farmer grimly. “Them’s my best Gravensteins, and right choice they be. Yep, I guess about a dollar’ll square matters.”
“A dollar!” cried Bob. “Why, I haven’t got more’n a quart of your old apples. A dollar a quart! Why, that’s thirty-two dollars a bushel!”
“Yep. Apples is kinder high this year,” went on the man, and, whether it was intentional or not, he reached down and brought into view an old shotgun.
“This is robbery!” protested Bob.
“Are you speakin’ of what you did?” inquired the farmer, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “If ye are I agree with ye!”
“A dollar!” spluttered Bob. “I’ll never pay it.”
“Wa’al, mebby ye’d ruther come along up to Squire Teeter’s, an’ have him value them apples,” said the farmer coolly.