We don't have to eat them at the table, and when Martha told Mary you
could do anything you wanted if you wanted to hard enough--except raise
the dead, of course--the idea came that I could sell my apple. And right
away came the thought of the boy I could sell it to. John Maxwell is his
name.

He goes to our Sunday-school and is fifteen, and croaks like a
bull-frog. Ugly? Pug-dog ugly; but he's awful nice, and for a boy has
real much sense.

His father owns the shoe-factory, and has plenty of money. I know, for
he told me he had five cents every day to get something for lunch, and
fifty cents a week to do anything he wants with. His mother gives it to
him.

Well, the next Sunday he came over to talk, like he always does after
Sunday-school is out, and I said, real quick, Mary giving signs of
silliness:

"I'm in business. Did you know it?"

"No," he said. "What kind? Want a partner?"

"I don't. I want customers. I'm in the Apple business. I have an apple
every day. It's for sale. Want to buy it?"

"What's the price?" Then he laughed. "I'm from New Jersey. What's it
worth?"