“Not this time,” replied Sam, with a forced laugh, as he looked at the fellow. “Like pears?”
“Ah!”
“Here then.”
Sam took a well-grown hard Marie Louise pear from his pocket, and Tom stared. “Catch.”
The pear was thrown, caught deftly, and transferred to a pocket in Pete’s ragged trousers where a forgotten hole existed, and the fruit was seen to run down the leg and re-appear by the lad’s boot. Pete grinned, picked it up, and put the fruit in a safer place.
“Catch again!” cried Sam, bringing out another pear, and throwing it this time with all his might, evidently with the intention of hitting the lad a sharp blow.
But the pear was caught as it struck in Pete’s palms with a smart spang, and was duly transferred to the lad’s pocket.
“What a shame!” thought Tom. “Uncle’s choice pears, and they were not fit to pick.”
“Got any more?” cried Pete.
“Yes, one. Have it?” said Sam, drawing out the finest yet, but disfigured by the marks of teeth, a piece having been bitten out, and proving too hard and green to be palatable. “Now then, catch.”