"Cherries? I should say so! There's no end to 'em--trees are loaded, and
red's a burning-bush. I was by there to-day."
It was an intensely eager voice, and Davy Kent, the speaker, ended his
little speech with an expressive smack of the lips.
"He'd never miss the few we'd take, would he, boys?" That was Ned
Rogers. It was upon a straw pile behind Mr. Rogers's barn that the boys
were holding an earnest consultation.
"Miss 'em? No, not if we took twice as many as we will."
"A bushel will be enough to treat the whole crowd, won't it?"
"Oh, any amount."
"Now see here, boys"--and Clem Goodrich lifted himself into a sitting
posture and knit his brows thoughtfully as he spoke--"I think--isn't
this--doesn't it seem a little bit like stealing? Don't you suppose he'd
give us a few if we were to ask him? It looks to me--"
But right here Clem's mild voice was drowned in a roaring, boisterous
chorus.
"It's not staling, me boy," said Con O'Brien, with the faintest brogue
in the world; "it's only helping ourselves to a few cherries, that
otherwise might spoil for want o' the picking, and so be wasted
intirely. And if Deacon Gammon don't know it, he'll be none the wiser,
for he's got piles and hapes more'n he can take care of. Ten to one
he'll be obliged to us for helping him out a little--he isn't a bad old
gintleman at heart, you know. And it's for the fun of it as well as the
ating we take 'em, and that's the truth."
"So 'tis," echoed a good many of the boys.
As for Clem, he gazed into Con's serious face doubtfully, yet, it must
be confessed, very willing to be convinced.
"I suppose you know best," said he--"you fellows that have lived here
all your lives."
"Of course," laughed Jerry Parker. "Why, my father says he always plants
an extra melon seed for us boys as well as for the bugs."
So they reasoned away their doubts and made their plans; and somehow,
before the little party broke up, each boy had pretty nearly succeeded
in persuading himself that he would be doing the Deacon a favor by
helping him make away with a small portion of his fruit. All the same,
Ned Rogers couldn't resist a little feeling of guilt, not unmingled with
dread, when his father said at the tea table that evening: "I wonder
what Deacon Gammon thought of that mow of early-cut timothy? He was up
to look at it this afternoon."
Nobody could tell what the Deacon thought of the hay, for nobody had
seen him. But Ned was thinking that he would give something to know just
at what time in the afternoon the Deacon came to look at that haymow.
That was what he said to his friends when they met next night all ready
for the proposed raid on the Deacon's cherries. There were not a few
blank faces in the little crowd when he told his story.
"He might have heard us if he was there when we were talking," said Ned,
beating a lively tattoo on the bottom of his basket. "I don't say he
did, but he might."
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Con O'Brien. "The Deacon's deaf a little, and I
don't believe he could hear what we were a-saying. Why didn't you go
round, me boy, to the straw hape, and see if you could hear yourself
into the bar-rn?"
A shout went up at that, which, to be sure, was exactly what Con wanted,
since there is nothing better than a jolly-sounding laugh to put a boy
on good terms with himself and everybody else.
"It's all right," said he. "Come on, now, and don't you be afraid o'
nothin'."
Not a boy among them was afraid; but a good many of them couldn't keep
their hearts from fluttering in a very queer way when they came, with
their baskets and bags, to the gap in Deacon Gammon's orchard wall. The
orchard was near the house, and the cherry-trees were scattered about
among the apple-trees in a hap-hazard fashion. The house looked dark and
still.
"It's just as I told you," whispered Con O'Brien, triumphantly. "The
Deacon and his wife have gone to prayer-mating, and the coast is clear.
'Rah for we! Look at 'em, me boys!"
They did more than look at the great, delicious, clustering cherries,
hanging from boughs which bent low down with their weight. They pulled
them by handfuls, and bags and baskets were rapidly filled.
"But there don't look to be any less 'n there was when we begun," said
Con, with a merry chuckle. "Now, boys, isn't this a big help to the old
gintleman? He'd niver get away with 'em alone, sure."
There was no sound except the voices of the frogs in the marsh under the
hill while the work went briskly on. It was when the boys were nearly
ready to leave that they heard a voice in the direction of the Deacon's
domicile:
"I don't know, but I'll walk out and see."
"It's ould Mrs. Gammon herself!" sounded Con's excited whisper. "Go for
the gap, me boys, and don't spill your cherries over. Go, now!"
They were all only too ready to obey. Away they skurried, with long
leaps, like frightened rabbits, through the orchard grass to the break
in the wall. But they did not go beyond it. Up rose the Deacon on the
other side, as cool--so Jerry Barker afterward said--as a frozen
cucumber.
"Good-evening, boys," said he. He took off his hat as he spoke, and by
the light of the moon the boys could see that he was making a desperate
effort to keep his face straight. "Now I'm-- Hold on there! _Stop!_"
For Con and Ike Harris had started to run. They stopped, however. There
was nothing else to do when the Deacon spoke in that way, and they knew
it.
"Let's see," said the Deacon, reaching toward Ned Rogers's basket,
which was forthwith handed over to him with great alacrity--"let's see
how many you've got."
He examined every boy's load in turn carefully and in silence, and all
the while the boys looked into each other's faces without speaking. Oh!
if the moon would but go under a cloud!
When the Deacon had finished his inspection, he spoke again, kindly, and
with a pleasant smile:
"Now, boys, I'm much obliged to ye. I've laid out to go to town with a
load o' truck to-morrow, an' I was wonderin' how I'd get my cherries
picked. I'm reely obliged to ye, and I'll be more so if ye'll carry 'em
to the house for me."
Not a boy felt like disobeying. Not one but silently picked up his
burden of cherries and marched along before the Deacon to the house and
into the porch.
"Set 'em right down here," directed Deacon Gammon, cheerily, "an' I'll
see to 'em 'fore long. Now, boys, ye've worked consider'ble hard, an'
you want some supper. Come in an' have some cherry pie an' cheese."
Every boy's face said he would rather die, and there was a sound of
murmured negatives.
"Yes, you will," said the Deacon; "you've worked well, an' deserve your
supper. Right in to the kitchen now, right in! Mother's a-waitin' for
ye."
So she was--kind, motherly Mrs. Gammon. And there was a table loaded
with goodies waiting for them too--sandwiches, and plum-cake, and cherry
pie, and cherry tarts, and cherries--cherries everywhere.
"Good-evening," said Mrs. Gammon, beaming upon the boys.
"Take some chairs," ordered the Deacon, behind them; "and set right up
and have some cherry pie and sech."
The boys wondered whether they were awake or dreaming as they filed
shamefacedly past Mrs. Gammon, hats in hand, and took seats at the
well-spread table.
"Now help yourselves," said the Deacon's wife. And each boy in his heart
wondered if she knew, and hoped she didn't. But they helped themselves
readily enough; and at length, between the Deacon's funny stories and
the delicious cherry pie, they came as near to enjoying themselves as
was possible under the circumstances.
"You ain't eat scarcely anything," said the Deacon, when the boys
finished their meal. "Have some cherries? No cherries? Ho! ho! ho!"
"Now, father!" expostulated his wife, mildly, and then the boys _knew_
she knew.
"I don't s'pose I'd ought to," said the Deacon; and he walked to the
head of the table, and stood there looking down at his young guests with
a queer little smile. "I ain't much of a speechifier," said he, "but I
want to ask you boys a question. Which would ye rather be, when ye get
ready to take your fathers' places, honest men or rogues?"
Every boy caught his breath. The old eight-day clock in the corner
ticked painfully loud.
"The man'll be nigh about the same as the boy," went on the Deacon. "Now
which'll you be, boys, rogues or honest men?"
"Hon--honest men," cried Con O'Brien.
Later on he said he couldn't help it, with the Deacon looking at him,
and the Deacon's wife wiping her glasses in that anxious way; but he
meant it all the same. And they all followed his lead, as they ever did,
every boy.
"That's right," said Deacon Gammon--"that's just right; and we won't say
another word about it."
"No, don't," said his wife.
But, after all, it was Con O'Brien who said the right thing in the right
place, as he picked up his basket, which wasn't entirely empty, in the
porch.
"Whenever you want any help about picking your cherries, Deacon Gammon,
call on us," said he. "We'll be sure to come when you sind for us, and
we won't come before, honest Injun!"
"That's right," said the Deacon--"that's right."
Then his eyes twinkled, as the boys filed out into the night. "Edward,"
said he to Ned Rogers, "tell your father that's the best mow of timothy
I ever saw."
"It's just the way I thought," cried the boys, when they got out of the
Deacon's hearing, "just exactly."
[Illustration: AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
"I'll 'tend to you in a moment, Mr. Hornet."]
[Illustration: A Midsummer Song.]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]