“Forbidden fruit” is the name the natives have given these great golden balls. Johnny didn’t call them that. He had called them grapefruit. He hadn’t eaten grapefruit many times because he had found them bitter.
“Bitter!” he had said, making a wry face. “Bitter, and me dying of thirst!” At a distance they had looked like oranges.
“Oh well—” He had resigned himself to his fate. “Here goes!”
He had left the railway bed, then dropping on the moss beneath a heavily laden tree, had seized upon a great golden ball and had begun tearing away its covering.
Having quartered the fruit, he had made up a wry face and thrust a generous wedge into his mouth.
Instantly the wry face had vanished. A glorious smile took its place.
“Not bad,” he said, filling his mouth again. “Not half bad. Just need to get ripe, I suppose. Sugar would be an insult to such fruit as this. People in the States don’t know what it is.”
He had spoken to himself, but some one else had heard, for from somewhere above him there had come in a melodious voice:
“So you like forbidden fruit?”
“I—I beg your pardon!” Johnny was on his feet at once. “I—I didn’t mean to steal. See here, I’ll buy a quarter’s worth.”