But the next Sunday there came near being trouble. Roper Gordon—he's John Maxwell's cousin—had heard about the apple selling. He told me I wasn't charging enough, and that he'd pay three cents for it.
"I'll be dogged if you will," said John. "I'm cornering that apple, and I'll meet you. I'll give four."
"All right," I said. "I'm in business to make money. I'm not charging for worth, but for want. The one who wants it most will pay most. It can go at four."
"No, it can't!" said Roper. His father is rich, too. He's the Vice-President of the Factory, and Roper puts on lots of airs. He thinks money can do anything.
"I'll give five. Apples in small lots come high, and selected ones higher. John is a close buyer, and isn't toting square."
"That's a lie!" said John, and he lit out with his right arm and gave Roper such a blow that my heart popped right out on my tongue and sat there. Scared? I was weak as a dead cat.
But I grabbed John and pulled him behind me before Roper could hit back, and then in some way they got outside, and I heard afterward John beat Roper to a jelly.
I don't blame him. If any one were to say I wasn't square, I'd fight, too.
When you don't fight, it's because what is said is true, and you're afraid it will be found out. And a coward. Good Lord!
Anyhow, after that I got five cents a day for my apple. John put six cents in, raising Roper, he said, but I wouldn't keep but five.