"Who be you thinkin' of for next governor, Jethro?" queries Rias
Richardson, timidly.
"They say Alvy Hopkins of Gosport is willin' to pay for it," said Chester Perkins, sarcastically. Chester; we fear, is a born agitator, fated to remain always in opposition. He is still a Democrat, and Jethro, as is well known, has extended the mortgage so as to include Chester's farm.
"Wouldn't give a Red Brook Seedling for Alvy," ejaculated the nasal Mr.
Price.
"D-don't like Red Brook Seedlings, Sam? D-don't like 'em?" said Jethro. He had parted his blue coat tails and seated himself on the stoop, his long legs hanging over it.
"Never seed a man who had a good word to say for 'em," said Mr. Price, with less conviction.
"Done well on mine," said Jethro, "d-done well. I was satisfied with my
Red Brook Seedlings."
Mr. Price's sallow face looked as if he would have contradicted another man.
"How was that, Jethro?" piped up Jake Wheeler, voicing the general desire.
Jethro looked off into the blue space beyond the mountain line.
"G-got mine when they first come round—seed cost me considerable. Raised more than a hundred bushels L-Listy put some of 'em on the table—t-then gave some to my old hoss Tom. Tom said: 'Hain't I always been a good beast, Jethro? Hain't I carried you faithful, summer and winter, for a good many years? And now you give me Red Brook Seedlings?'"