“Yaas, sah, sartin shuh,” said Grandison.  “I done tole you I’d do it, Mahs’r Morris, an’ I ’tends ter stick ter de truf.”

“Now, den,” said Grandison, in a tone of triumph, when Mr. Morris had ridden away, “you see I’s right in my ’clusions, and Mahs’r Morris ’grees with me.”

“Dunno,” said Brother ’Bijah, shaking his head, “dis is a mighty dubersome question.  You kep’ dem apples clar out o’ sight, Brudder Gran’son; clar out o’ sight.”

It was about a week after this, quite early in the morning, that Grandison was slowly driving into town with a horse and a wagon which he had borrowed from a neighbor.  In the wagon were three barrels of fine apples.  Suddenly, at a turn in the road, he was greatly surprised to meet Mr. Morris, riding homeward.

“What have you in those barrels, Grandison?” inquired his landlord.

“Dey’s apples, sah,” was the reply, “dat I’s got de job ob haulin’ ter town, sah.”

Mr. Morris rode up to the wagon and removed the piece of old canvas that was thrown over the tops of the barrels; there was no need of asking any questions.  No one but himself, for many miles around, had “Belle-flowers” and “Jeannettes” like these.

“How much do you lack, Grandison,” he said, “of making up the money you owe me to-morrow?”

“Six dollars, sah,” said Grandison.

“Six dollars—­three barrels—­very good,” said Mr. Morris.  “I see you are determined to stick to the truth, Grandison, and keep your engagement.  But I will trouble you to turn that wagon round and haul those apples to my house.  And, if you still want to buy the place, you can come on Monday morning and work out the balance you have to make up on the first instalment; and, after this, you can make all your payments in work.  A day’s labor is fair and plain, but your ways of sticking to the truth are very crooked.”

It was not long after this that Grandison was ploughing in one of Mr. Morris’ fields, when Brother ’Bijah came along and sat upon the fence.

“Brudder Gran’son,” said he, when the ploughman had reached the end of the furrow and was preparing to turn, “jes’ you let your hoss res’ a minnit till I tells you a par’ble.”

“Wot par’ble?” said Grandison, in a tone of unconcern, but stopping his horse, all the same.

“Why, dis one!” said ‘Bijah.  “Dar was an ole mule an’ he b’longed to a cullud man named Harris who used to carry de mail from de Coht House ter Cary’s Cross-roads.  De ole mule was a pow’ful triflin’ critter an’ he got lazier an’ lazier, an’ ’fore long he got so dreffle slow dat it tuk him more’n one day ter go from de Coht House ter de crossroads, an’ he allus come in de day ahfter mail-day, when de people was done gone home.  So de cullud man, Harris, he says: 

“‘You is too ole fur ter carry de mail, you triflin’ mule, an’ I hain’t got no udder use fur you.’