“They ought to be good around here,” he commented, rather avidly, I thought. “Nice, fresh cantaloupe right out of the field.”
We entered.
I did not know, really, how seriously Franklin craved fresh, ripe, cold muskmelon in hot weather until we got inside.
“We’ll have muskmelon, eh?” he observed eagerly.
“All right. I’ll divide one with you.”
“Oh, no,” he returned, with the faintest rise in his inflection. “I’d like a whole one.”
“Delighted, Franklin,” I replied. “On with the dance. Let muskmelon, etc.”
He went to the counter and persuaded the waiter maid to set forth for him two of the very largest—they were like small watermelons—which he brought over.
“These look like fine melons,” he observed.
“They’re splendid,” said the girl. “This is a melon country.”