"Was it Grain, Mother?"
"Grain, that's it! I thought I couldn't be far out."
"Have another biscuit, Mother. No? Then Little John will, won't you, old chap? You're quite sure Grain was the boy who bought the russet apples, Mother? I do so fancy a juicy russet!"
"They weren't what you might call juicy, lovey—rather green, I should say. Master Grain certainly bought all I had left. He might just have one by him still."
"Thank you, Mother—I'll speak to him about it. Good-day."
He took Little John's arm and walked quietly from the shop, crunching a gingerbread between his firm, white teeth. Outside, he slapped Flenton gleefully on the shoulder.
"Flenton, old kid, we've got this apple mystery whipped to a froth," he cried. "Grain it is who knocked over the lamp with his russet apple, and Grain it will be who'll go through the hoop for it."
"Seems as plain as a pikestaff," Little John agreed. "But how shall we catch Grain alone?"
"Leave it to me. I'll think out a scheme. We'll make the beggar sorry he upset our applecart with his russet, never fear!"
All unconscious of the rod in pickle for him, Grain went about his blustering way, pinching and prodding the luckless nippers who chanced across his path, forcing his fellow Squirms into episodes they would fain have funked, and generally making himself openly feared and secretly hated. The only way to "buy him off" was with food and sweetmeats, he being so greedily fond of both that he seemed, like some animals, to be always chewing.