"I'll fix you for that!" he roared. "Roger Strong, I'll get even with
you, if it takes ten years!"

"Do what you please, Duncan Woodward," I rejoined. "I don't fear you.
Only beware how you address me in the future. You will get yourself
into trouble."

"I imagine you will be the one to get into trouble," he returned
insinuatingly.

"I'm not afraid. But-- hold up there!" I added, for Duncan had begun
to move off toward the fence.

"What for?"

"I want you to hand over the pears you picked."

"I won't."

"Very well. Then I'll report the case to Mrs. Canby."

Duncan grew white.

"Take your confounded fruit," he howled, throwing a dozen or more of
the luscious pears at my feet. "If I don't get even with you, my name
isn't Duncan Woodward!"

And with this parting threat he turned to the fence, jumped over, and
strode down the road.