"I don't, thank you."
Then, reluctantly, the flashing black eyes looked down at Johnny. "Doesn't resemble—anybody? Well, young man!"
"Say, 'How do you do?' Johnny," Miss Lydia commanded, faintly.
"How do?" Johnny said, impatiently. He was looking over his apples and, discovering some bruised ones, frowned and threw them away.
"Where did you get your apples?" said Mr. Smith.
"On the road," said Johnny; "they ain't yours when they drop on the road."
"Say 'aren't,' Johnny," said Miss Lydia. "It isn't nice to say 'ain't.'"
"Why aren't they mine?" said the old man. He was towering up above the two little figures, his feet wide apart, his hands behind him, switching his cane back and forth like a tail.
"'Cause I've got 'em," Johnny explained, briefly.
"Ha! The nine-tenths! You'll be a lawyer, sir!" his grandfather said. "Suppose I say, 'Give me some'?"