"'Turn the other cheek,'" chuckled Bobby, "like Miss Rainey, our Sunday-school teacher, says."
"Huh! that's all right. A fellow's got two cheeks; but if you get a punch in the nose, you can't turn your other nose—you haven't one! So now!" declared the very literal and pugnacious Fred.
Just then they came close enough to the creek to see the willows along the hank. At the corner of the Plunkit fence there stood a big apple tree—a "summer sweetnin'" as the country folk called it.
"Scubbity-yow!" ejaculated Fred Martin. "See those apples? And they're yellow!"
"Some of them are," admitted his chum.
"More'n half of them, I declare. Say! we're going to have a feast, Bob. Come on!"
Bobby grabbed him by the sleeve. "Hold on! don't go so fast, Fred," exclaimed the brown-eyed boy. "Those apples aren't ours."
"But they're going to be," returned Fred, grinning.
"Now, you don't mean that," said Bobby, seriously. "You know you mustn't climb that tree, or pick apples on this side of the fence. Here's where we crawl through. Now! lots of the limbs overhang this other side of the fence—and there's a lot of ripe apples on the ground."
"Pshaw! the Plunkits would never know," complained Fred. But he followed Bobby through the break in the pasture fence, just the same.