It was a perfectly sincere speech—­an indirect expression of deep concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker’s generosity.  Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some characteristic process of crooked reasoning, managed to misinterpret it.  Plaintively the latter said: 

“I s’pose I am a handicap to you, Tom.  You’re mighty consid’rate of my feelin’s, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do.”

“I don’t throw it up to you none.  I never did.  No, Jerry, I’ll row the boat.  You go overland and keep your feet dry.”

“A lot of good that would do.”  Mr. Quirk spoke morosely.  “I’d starve to death walkin’ around if you lost the grub.”

This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of looking at the matter.  He had taken no such view of Jerry’s offer; he had thought less about the grub than about his partner’s safety.  It was an inconsiderate and unfeeling remark.  After a moment he said: 

“You know I don’t throw things up to you, Jerry.  I ain’t that kind.”  Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily.  “You didn’t mean to say that, did you?”

What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at the moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank and now accosted him and his partner jointly.

“Bonjour, m’sieu’s!” said the new-comer.  “I’m lookin’ for buy some lemon’.  You got some, no?”

Mr. Quirk spoke irritably.  “Sure.  We’ve got a few, but they ain’t for sale.”

The stranger—­Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had seen at Sheep Camp—­smiled confidently.

“Oh yes!  Everyt’ing is for sale if you pay ’nough for him,” said he.

Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a vague undertone of acrimony was creeping—­a conversation that gave every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-satisfying difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument of the old familiar sort.  To have the promise of an invigorating quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.

“We’ve got use for our lemons and we’re going to keep them,” said Tom.  “We’re lemon-eaters—­full of acid—­that’s us.”

“We wouldn’t give lemon aid to nobody.”  Jerry grinned in malicious enjoyment of his own wit.

“You got how many?” ’Poleon persisted.

“Oh, ’bout enough!  Mebbe a dozen or two.”

“I buy ’em.  Dere’s poor seeck lady—­”

Tom cut in brusquely.  “You won’t buy anything here.  Don’t tell us your troubles.  We’ve got enough of our own, and poverty ain’t among the number.”

“W’at trouble you got, eh?  Me, I’m de trouble man.  Mebbe I fix ’em.”

Sourly the partners explained their difficulty.  When ’Poleon understood he smiled again, more widely.

“Good!  I mak’ bargain wit’ you, queeck.  Me, I’m pilot of de bes’ an’ I tak’ your boat t’rough for dose lemon’.”