"Never touch 'em, Master Robin. Can't ever get sufficient to keep you Foxenby boys going, let alone myself."
"You don't seem to have any to-day, Mrs. Roe?"
The proprietress pointed to some empty baskets.
"Them was half-full an hour ago," she declared, "but a dozen or more young gentlemen came in and took the lot."
"Hard lines! I particularly wanted some apples. Haven't you a few russets left?"
"Given up stocking them, Master Robin. No demand. Sold the last pound to one of your young friends a few days ago. He was about the only one who ever bought any, and catering for one person alone doesn't pay."
"Certainly not, Mrs. Roe. Still, I did so fancy a russet apple to-day. I wonder if the chap who bought 'em will have one or two left? Just possible, isn't it, Flenton? Could you describe him to me, Mother?"
"I'm a bit short-sighted, lovey, without much memory for faces. He's a biggish boy, about your age, but stouter. If he were my son, I'd see that he kept himself cleaner and smarter."
"Ah, well, perhaps he was born with a sallow skin, Mother. Can't you describe him a little better than that? What name did the other fellows give him?"
"There, you're asking me something! I've such a poor memory for names. Let me see, what did they call him? Barley—no; Wheat—no; bless me, something like that, but not quite."