“Good-morning, Mr. Todderley. Glad to see you, Mr. Parker; I was thinking of coming to see you.”
“To see me?”
“Yes,” said Zeb; “I was going to ask if you had any sweet apples to sell.”
“You young rascal, what do you know about my apples?”
“Your apples?” cried Zeb, with a surprised air. “Why, has anything happened to them? That was one thing I meant to speak about if I came to see you. I noticed the other day that you are careless about them. I’m afraid you’ve left ’em out over night, hanging on the trees. Have any of ’em run away?”
“That’s it. I was afraid it would be so,” moralized Zeb. “Just like old Sol Dryer’s cows. There’s nothing sure in this world, Mr. Parker. Nothing but death and taxes.”
“Brother Todderley!” exclaimed the angry old farmer, “I believe he knows all about it. I’ll go right and see his father, at once. I don’t believe a word of that cow business—not a word of it.”
“Look at his eye, Brother Parker,” argued the miller, as he hurried to keep pace with his longer-legged friend. “Look at his eye. Didn’t get that fighting with your apples. No use, Parker. Look at his eye.”
“Eye! Eye!” exclaimed Parker. “What do I care about his eye? What I want to know is, what went with my apples?”