calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a
pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With
her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his
hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks
at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.

That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries
of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a
kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed;
for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a
broken ginger ale bottle and--s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds'
pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a
fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is
busy shiftin' that husky shoe.

So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut
trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten
old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate
sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin'
gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't
waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and
simple who he is and what he's after.

"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."

"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.

Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the
stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger
toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.