And here it was that the question of muskmelons once more arose—this time to plague me—melons which, as we have seen, were as plentiful as manna in the desert.
“Now,” Franklin observed with unction as we sat down, “I’m going to have another muskmelon.”
“Right,” I congratulated him, with the air of a generous host, “now’s the time.”
“Give me a nice large, cold muskmelon,” he observed to the darky who now appeared, napkin on arm.
THE OHIO AT EVANSVILLE
“Sorry, boss,” replied that worthy, “we ain’t got no mushmelers dis mawnin. Dey ain’t none to be had in de maaket.”
“What’s that?” I demanded, looking up and getting nervous, for we were in the very best restaurant the city afforded. “No muskmelons! What are you talking about? We saw fields of them—miles of them—between here and Vincennes and Sullivan.”
“Da’s right, boss. Da’s where dey grows. You see 'um dere all right. But dey don’t allus bring ’um down here. Dis ain’t no maaket. Dey go noth and east—to New Yawk and Chicago. Da’s what it is.”
“You mean to say you can’t get me a single melon?” queried Franklin feebly, a distinct note of reproach in his voice. He even glanced my way.