“Do you run the vineyards, too?” Richard asked incredulously.
“Mistah Richud,” George Alexander assumed an air of great seriousness, “I nevah could understand why anybody would prefeh to stan’ when dey could talk jess as well settin’! Hyah! Hyah!”
His solemn face broke forth into radiant lines as he pointed towards two excellent rustic benches facing each other.
“Yassuh!” he came back to Richard’s question after he had spread himself comfortably on one of the seats. “Yassuh! I take charge of de grapes. An’ I used to take charge of de apples, too; but Mrs. Wells, she done let dem apples all go. Dey ain’t so much in de grapes as dey used to be, but apples—why, dem apples, Mistuh Richud, was all pure gold. I tol’ her she make a big mistake to let ’em go. An’ Mistah Buttuhwo’th tol’ her. Mistah Buttuhwo’th’s from Philadelphia, an’ he knows all about apples. He loves apples so much he says it’s a’mos’ wicked to eat one. Hyah! Hyah! He knows apples well enough to call ’em by dar fus’ names, Mistah Buttuhwo’th does; hyah! hyah!”
“Did you have any trouble with the apples, George?”
“Trouble?” George straightened up as much as his old back would allow. “Apples ain’t no trouble, Mistah Richud. Jes’ spray ’em propuhly, dat’s all dey asks. Spray ’em to kill de fungus while de trees is still a-winterin’, an’ spray ’em to kill de Hosay scale befo’ de blossom comes, an’ spray ’em to kill de red-bug after de fruit is a-growin’, an’ spray ’em to kill de cuddlin’ moth all de middle of de summer, an’ spray ’em to kill de tent caterpillar when de fruit is mos’ grown, an’ spray ’em to kill de rest of ’em when de fruit is done. An’ even den if yo’ fin’ youse’f restless at night an’ can’t git to sleep, you’d better git up an’ spray ’em agin fo’ luck! Hyah! Hyah! Trouble? Dey ain’t no trouble ’bout growin’ apples; dey jes’ grows natcherel de way de Lawd intended; de on’y thing dat breaks yo’ back is killin’ dem consarned, evahlastin’ bugs.... Hyah! Hyah!”
Richard paid his full tribute of applause and then asked, “Why did Mrs. Wells let the apples go? Didn’t they pay?”
Richard inquired out of no thought to pry. The old man was so interesting that it was a temptation to start him going.
“Pay? Why in co’se dey paid! We was gittin’ fo’ thousand barrels o’ puhfeck fruit after Mistah Buttuhwo’th come up hyah and tol’ us how to do it. Used to be gittin’ on’y about fi’ hundud. An’ Mistah Buttuhwo’th, he’d take ’em down to Philadelphia an’ put ’em in his big ice-house and set back and wait till all de apples was eat up an’ folks got a-hankerin’ fo’ one—Mistah Buttuhwo’th says dah’s a lot o’ Adam left in folks yit! Hyah! Hyah!—an’ den when dey’s ready to pay ’mos’ anything for even a Ben Davis, he brings out our genuine Baldwins, an’ pow! de price goes sky-yutin’!”
“Then why didn’t you keep the orchards?”