“Don’t you wish you may get it?” said the other, holding it out of his reach.
The young musician had little chance of redress, his antagonist was a head taller than himself, and, besides, he would not have dared lay down his fiddle to fight, lest it might be broken.
“Give it to me,” he said, stamping his foot.
“I mean to eat it myself,” said the other, coolly. “It’s too good for the likes of you.”
“You’re a thief.”
“Don’t you call me names, you little Italian ragamuffin, or I’ll hit you,” said the other, menacingly.
“It is my apple.”
“I’m going to eat it.”
But the speaker was mistaken. As he held the apple above his head, it was suddenly snatched from him. He looked around angrily, and confronted Edward Eustis, who, seeing Phil’s trouble from a little distance, had at once come to his rescue.
“What did you do that for?” demanded the thief.