“Oh, here’s your dollar!” cried Bob, handing over a crumpled bill. “But it’s robbery.”
“Yep,” admitted the farmer coolly, as he pocketed the money. “That’s what the folks around here calls takin’ other people’s things—robbery.”
He sank down in the grass again, probably to wait for his next victim, while Bob, under the laughing eyes of Jerry and Ned, made his way to the auto. They started off, and Bob’s good nature came back as he viewed the apples.
“Well, they look fine, anyhow,” he said.
He set his teeth into one—after an effort—and then he let out a yell.
“Whew! Ouch! Good night!” he cried.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jerry.
“They’re as hard as rocks, and as sour as lemons!” cried Bob. “I’m stung, all right! Those apples won’t be ripe until next winter. The old skinflint! A dollar a quart! Whew!” and Bob threw the apples into the road.
They stopped for lunch beneath a big shady maple tree, near a cool spring bubbling out of a roadside hill.