Billy was so startled that he stepped back, caught his foot in a vine, and rolled over and over on the ground. There, where a minute before had been nothing at all, stood a great red Tomato leaning on its vine.
"It's—it's a fine morning, sir," said Billy.
"A vine morning you mean," said the Tomato sourly.
"I beg your pardon?" said Billy, because he hadn't quite understood the Tomato.
"Granted for just this once. But don't do it again."
"What?"
"Anything—great tin cans! how I hate boys."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Billy.
"No, you're not," grumbled the Tomato; "you say you are, but you're not; boys are never sorry."