CHAPTER I

The trouble in the orchard

“Hi, there, Duncan Woodward!” I called out.  “What are you doing in Widow Canby’s orchard?”

“None of your business, Roger Strong,” replied the only son of the wealthiest merchant in Darbyville.

“You are stealing her pears,” I went on.  “Your pockets are full of them.”

“See here, Roger Strong, just you mind your own business and leave me alone.”

“I am minding my business,” I rejoined warmly.

“Indeed!” And Duncan put as much of a sneer as was possible in the word.

“Yes, indeed.  Widow Canby pays me for taking care of her orchard, and that includes keeping an eye on these pear trees,” and I approached the tree upon the lowest branch of which Duncan was standing.

“Humph!  You think you’re mighty big!” he blustered, as he jumped to the ground.  “What right has a fellow like you to talk to me in this manner?  You are getting too big for your boots.”

“I don’t think so.  I’m guarding this property, and I want you to hand over what you’ve taken and leave the premises,” I retorted, for I did not fancy the style in which I was being addressed.

“Pooh!  Do you expect me to pay any attention to that?”

“You had better, Duncan.  If you don’t you may get into trouble.”

“I suppose you intend to tell the widow what I’ve done.”

“I certainly shall; unless you do as I’ve told you to.”

Duncan bit his lip.  “How do you know but what the widow said I could have the pears?” he ventured.

“If she did, it’s all right,” I returned, astonished, not so much over the fact that Widow Canby had granted the permission, as that such a high-toned young gentleman as Duncan Woodward should desire that privilege.

“You’ve no business to jump at conclusions,” he added sharply.

“If I judged you wrongly, I beg your pardon, Duncan.  I’ll speak to the widow about it.”

I began to move off toward the house.  Duncan hurried after me and caught me by the arm.

“You fool you, what do you mean?” he demanded.

“I’m going to find out if you are telling the truth.”

“Isn’t my word enough?”

“It will do no harm to ask,” I replied evasively, not caring to pick a quarrel, and yet morally sure that he was prevaricating.

“So you think I’m telling you a falsehood?  I’ve a good mind to give you a sound drubbing,” he cried angrily.

Duncan Woodward had many of the traits of a bully about him.  He was the only son of a widower who nearly idolized him, and, lacking a mother’s guiding influence, he had grown up wayward in the extreme.

He was a tall, well-built fellow, strong from constant athletic exercise, and given, on this account, to having his way among his associates.

Yet I was not afraid of him.  Indeed, to tell the truth, I was not afraid of any one.  For eight years I had been shoved in life from pillar to post, until now threats had no terrors for me.