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"Well, 'cause Bill hogs it, that's why," complained Anson. "Last time we had tarts I didn't get none. An' it's the same with pie an' cake." Anson squatted down beside Maurice. "No, by gosh! you're not so far wrong," he admitted, ruefully. "Somebody is layin' fer me, an' layin' fer me right. It's Bill. Say, Maurice, won't you try an' get him to let me off this time. If you will I won't ferget it in a hurry." "I was down to the lake this evenin'," said the boy, "an' I heard Shipley and Sward talkin' together. They was plannin' a raid on your orchard tonight.".

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"Sir," prompted a voice from the back seat. "Well, you go along to the milkhouse an' lick the cream off a pan of milk. It'll settle that Injun turnip quick." The deacon sat silent, thinking. "What's their game, Tom?" he asked suddenly. "Missus Scraff—you know what a fidgety fly-off-the-handle she is, an' how she suffers from the asthma—well, she'd come over an' was stayin' to supper. I sent that Willium out on the back ridge to gather some wild thimble-berries fer dessert. He comes in just as I had the table all set, that wicked old coon he's made a pet of at his heels an' that devil-eyed crow, Croaker, on his shoulder. Afore I could get hold of the broom, he put the covered pail on the table an' went out ag'in. The coon follered him, but that crow jumped right onto the table an' grabbed a piece of cake. I made a dash at him an' he flopped to Missus Scraff's shoulder. She was chewin' a piece of slippery-ellum bark fer her asthma, an' when his claws gripped her shoulder she shrieked an' like to 'a' choked to death on it..