Danny Chatterton came up the street whistling a merry tune, while Don Scott lay under an apple-tree back of his father’s house, munching an apple and scowling blackly, although the September afternoon was pleasant and sunny enough to put any boy in an agreeable humor. Judging by the sour expression on Don’s face one might never have fancied the half-devoured apple in his hand was sweet. “Dud-does it hu-hurt ye much?” grinned the cheerful lad at the fence. “What do you eat it for if it makes you fur-fur-feel so bad?”…
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