"No, give us the smaller basket to-day, my boy. It's our turn to be generous."
He extended his hand as he spoke.
Crow tried to answer, but he could not. His mouth felt as dry and stiff and hard as a chip, and he suddenly began to open it wide and shut it slowly, like a chicken with the gapes.
Mr. Cary kept his hand out waiting, but still Crow stood as if paralyzed, gaping and swallowing.
Finally, he began to blink. And then he stammered:
"I ain't p-p-p-ertic'lar b-b-bout de big basket. D-d-d-de best figs is in y'all's pickin'—in dis, de big basket."
Crow's appearance was conviction itself. Without more ado, Mr. Cary grasped his arm firmly and fairly lifted him into the room.
"Now, set those baskets down." He spoke sharply.
The boy obeyed.
"Here! empty the larger one on this tray. That's it. All fine, ripe figs. You've picked well for us. Now turn the other one out."