He goes to our Sunday-school and is fifteen, and croaks like a bull-frog. Ugly? Pug-dog ugly; but he's awful nice, and for a boy has real much sense.
His father owns the shoe-factory, and has plenty of money. I know, for he told me he had five cents every day to get something for lunch, and fifty cents a week to do anything he wants with. His mother gives it to him.
Well, the next Sunday he came over to talk, like he always does after Sunday-school is out, and I said, real quick, Mary giving signs of silliness:
"I'm in business. Did you know it?"
"No," he said. "What kind? Want a partner?"
"I don't. I want customers. I'm in the Apple business. I have an apple every day. It's for sale. Want to buy it?"
"What's the price?" Then he laughed. "I'm from New Jersey. What's it worth?"
"It's worth a cent. As you're from New Jersey, I charge you two. Take it?"
"I do." And he started to hand the money out.
But I told him I didn't want pay in advance. And then we talked over how the apple could be put where he could get it, and the money where I could. We decided on a certain hole in the Asylum fence John knew about, and every evening that week I put my apple there and found his two pennies. On Saturday night I had fourteen cents. Wasn't that grand? Fourteen cents!