But in spite of Uncle Dad's sage conclusions, it was this very prohibition question that was disturbing Anderson Crow. He sauntered into the Banner office late one afternoon in May and planked himself down in a chair beside the editor's desk. There was a troubled look in his eyes, which gave way to vexation after he had made three or four fruitless efforts to divert the writer's attention from the sheet of "copy paper" on which he was scribbling furiously.
"How do you spell beverage, Anderson?" inquired Mr. Squires abruptly.
"What kind of beverage?" demanded Mr. Crow.
"Any kind, just so it's intoxicating. Never mind, I'll take a chance and spell it the easiest way. That's the way the dictionary spells it, so I guess it's all right. Well, sir, what's on your mind?—besides your hat, I mean. You look worried."
"I am worried. Have you any idee as to the size of the apple crop in this neighbourhood last summer and fall, Harry?"
"Not the least."
"Well, sir, it was the biggest we've had since 1902, 'specially the fall pickin."
"What's the idea? Do you want me to put something in the Banner about Bramble County's bumper crop of pippins?"
"No. I just want to ask you if there's anything in this new prohibition amendment against apple cider?"
"Not that I'm aware of."