Bob stopped his flivver, and the noise of the squeaking brakes caused the Italian to look up. He saw and must have recognized the lad. But if he was at all disturbed at being observed he did not show it. Instead he smiled, showing his white, even teeth.
“Hallo!” greeted Pietro. “Hallo-hallo!” He had a queer pronunciation of it—not unpleasant, though.
“Hello,” replied Bob. “You grow monkeys here?” he jokingly asked.
“No—not maka da monk grow—maka him eats grow.”
“You mean peanuts?” asked Bob, though he knew it couldn’t be goobers, or ground-nuts, that Pietro contemplated raising in the bramble patch. The lad was throwing out feelers, so to speak.
“No peanuts!” laughed the Italian. “Look—monkey lika deese!”
He held out in his hand, having taken them from the pocket of his coat—some sort of dried fruit or nuts, Bob couldn’t decide which.
“Oh, you’re going to plant these, eh, Pietro?”
“Sure—plant for da monk.”
“But they won’t grow this time of year, Pietro. Cold weather, you know—Jack Frost kill ’em. Look, everything now almost dead,” and Bob waved his hand over the sear and yellow weeds in the bramble patch.