minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it
smarter." And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly. He saw her in the
form of acres of land, live stock, farm buildings, and money in the
bank. "Molasses," he thought; "yes, sir, molasses. Maple sugar." But
when he looked at his son Thomas, he frowned. "Go on," he wanted to
say, "go on, you slowpoke."

Farmer Barly also frowned at Thomas Frye. He felt that he was being
hurried. "She's well enough where she is," he thought. "She's young
yet. A year or two more . . ."

"Well," said Mr. Crabbe, "I look forward to the day." And he waved his
hand kindly in the air. "It's your move, Mr. F."

Mr. Frye arose, and walked toward the door, where Thomas was bidding
Anna good-by. "See you to-night," Thomas whispered; "heh, Anna?"

"Please yourself," said Anna. And off she went, without looking at Mr.
Frye, who had come to speak to her. When she was gone, Mr. Frye gave
his son a keen glance. In it was both curiosity and malice. But
Thomas turned away. It seemed to him that women must have been easier
to understand when his father was young. For no one could understand
them now.

While the storekeeper's back was turned, Mr. Crabbe rearranged the
checkerboard. He took up two of Mr. Frye's men and put them in his
pocket. Then he winked at Mr. Barly, as though to say: "I'm just a
leetle too smart for him."

Farmer Barly winked back. It amused him to have Mr. Frye beaten