cious mealiness of the one strangely blended and mingled the buttery and melting juices of the other, so that for years the divided youth of Chamboro had disputed as to which was finer, the Brandy wines from the south side, or the Strawberry Reds from the north side. These arguments were always accompanied by much pensive smacking of lips, and year in and year out many a young mouth had watered at vivid descriptions of old Cap'n Steiner's forbidden fruit.
Due word of this wondrous tree set Lonely O'Malley to thinking. In time these continuously rapt and highly embellished recountals even prompted him to action.
But there were difficulties. For twenty years and more, every boy in the village had nursed designs on old Cap'n Steiner's apples. Men who were growing slightly bald still rubbed their vests and told ruefully how near, such and such a night, they came to getting a hatful of the old fellow's Strawberry Reds. So powerful a magnet had this tree stood to predaceous youth that the old Captain had grown schooled in craft, and in time had learned all the arts and tricks and dodges of his besiegers.
