“I think you ought to know by this time, my son.”
“Well, yes,” said Zeb, quietly, “I had some pretty good lessons years ago. May be it was just as well, too. But, father, how old am I now?”
“Eighteen, Zeb. Why do you ask such a question?”
“Eighteen!” slowly repeated Zeb. “Can’t you think of anything better than apple-tree suckers for a boy of eighteen?”
“Zebedee!” exclaimed the astonished deacon.
“I just thought I’d ask the question,” said Zeb, with a twinkle in his gray eyes which may not have been altogether fun. “Sprouts get to be trees, sometimes.”
“And bear apples, and save men’s lives—yes, and teach lessons to their own fathers,” exclaimed the deacon, as he threw the whole handful of rods over the nearest fence. “I was mistaken, Zeb. Go in and see your mother. I’m going to meeting. And—Zeb—I don’t want any tree in my orchard to bear worthless apples.”
Zeb went on into the house and his father out at the gate. It may be that both of them strongly suspected how completely every word had been drunk in by the listening, loving ears of good old Mrs. Fuller.
They owed a good deal to her, those two, father as well as son, and she had never looked with much favor on the apple-tree sprouts. Not, at least, since Zebedee reached his first very mischievous “’teens.”
There was little danger that the orchard would ever again be drawn upon for Zeb’s benefit.