“No danger, old man’s gone to meetin’,” said Cub, whose real name was Richard,—his odd shape (he was ludicrously short and fat) having probably suggested the nickname.
“Me an’ Cub can go without stoopin’,” giggled Hod, the youngest (christened Horace). “See Hank! he looks like a well-sweep!”
And indeed the second of the boys, who was as wonderfully tall and lank as Cub was short and thick, bore no slight resemblance to that ornament of country door-yards.
“Hanged if one o’ mine ain’t a green one!” exclaimed Tug (short for Dwight), dashing to the ground a large watermelon, the sight of which in ruins would have made old Peternot’s heart ache.
“Guess we made a clean sweep of all the ripe ones,” said Cub. “No, you don’t!” as Tug offered to relieve him of one of his three. “I never had my fill o’ melons yit, though I’ve”—cramming his mouth while he continued to talk—“been in the squire’s patch much as once afore now.”
“You never had your fill of anything, I believe, Cub!” said Hod, with his usual giggle. “Remember when we went there in the night last year?”
“Night’s no time to go for melons,” said Cub. “Ye can’t tell a ripe one ’thout cuttin’ into ’t.”
“Yes, ye can,” said Tug; “smell on ’t. That’s the best way to tell a mushmelon.”
“Cub’s terrible petic’lar about slashin’ the ol’ man’s whoppers, all to once,” said Horace.
“Of course, for if we cut a green one we sha’n’t find it ripe next time we go,” Cub explained. “Jest look! we’re makin’ a string o’ rines all the way from Peternot’s to the deacon’s orchard!”