"Oh, cheer up, that's a joke! I know apples aren't!"
The young man smiled.
"Mine isn't, I'm afraid, from what you say about them."
"I think maybe that speck isn't a wormhole, after all," said Phil, subjecting the apple she still held to another scrutiny. "You might give us a half a bushel of these. My ambitions lead me toward apple pie, and if it doesn't come out well I can blame your apples."
He smiled again, and frank admiration shone in his eyes as they surveyed Phil with more assurance.
"If you really want some of these I'll bring them in. Half a bushel?"
"That will be enough," replied Phil succinctly. She rubbed the apple with the corner of her blue-and-white apron, chose a spot that inspired confidence, and bit into it. She waited for the effect absently and puckered her lips. "It's a cooker. What's the name of the brand?"
"Give it up."
"Then I'll tell you. It's a 'Liza Browning. You'd better learn the names of apples before you go much further in the business. Any farmhand can tell you. Uncle Amy's taught me about twenty. What's the price of this precious fruit?"
"Oh, I couldn't charge you for these, you know. You see—"