"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Adrian. "This will do to buy some ammunition with, and we can go squirrel hunting. I was just wishing for some cash to get the cartridges, and now we have it. Did you ever go after squirrels, Roger?"
"I never had a chance."
"Well, we'll go some day next week. I've got a gun, and I can borrow Porter Amidown's for you. It'll be lots of sport, and besides, we can get a mess of squirrels for dinner, and that'll save buying meat."
"I'll wait 'til I see yer squirrels 'fore I let th' butcher go by," remarked Mrs. Kimball, dryly.
"Wa'al, I've got t' git back t' th' orchard," said Mr. Kimball, after a pause, and he left to resume his work.
"Want to come up in the vineyard and watch me pick grapes?" asked Adrian of his cousin.
"I'll come up if you'll let me help a little," agreed the city boy. "I don't want to simply look on."
"Now ye must be careful, Roger," cautioned Mrs. Kimball. "Land, a body'd never think ye'd spent all night in th' woods, keepin' company 'ith a wild-cat thet most took yer skin off. Don't ye go t' pickin' grapes 'n' openin' th' sores agin. Ef ye go Ade'll hev t' make ye keep still."
"All right, mother," agreed Roger's cousin, and the two boys started off.
The place where the grapes grew was on the side of a gently sloping hill, about a quarter of a mile back of the house. The vines were twined over wires strung between posts, and were planted in rows about ten feet apart, so there was plenty of chance for the sun to get at the fruit, Old Sol's rays being needed to ripen the big purple, red, and white clusters. The boys walked up a little path back of the farmhouse, through the barnyard, up past the corn-crib, and the melon patch, past the yard where a flock of white Wyandotte chickens were cackling, and so on, up to where the air was fragrant with the bloom of the grapes.