Old Mr. Cary was red in the face and panting even yet from reaching up into the mouldy, damp lower limbs of his fig-trees, trying to gather a dishful for breakfast.
"Come in," he said, mopping his forehead as he spoke.
"Pick on shares, will you?"
"Yassir."
"Even?"
"Yassir."
"Promise never to pick any but the very ripe figs?"
"Yassir."
"Honest boy?"
"Yassir."