Pud Pringle grinned. He was fifteen years old, a deeply tanned, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy with a nose that tilted inquiringly upward at the tip and a mouth a little too wide for beauty. Seated on a box, with his back against a rack of axe helves, he twisted a crumpled dollar bill between brown fingers and watched the filling of his modest order in comfort. ‘How’s your folks, Pud?’ asked the grocer as he wrapped up the wedge of cheese. ‘Ma well?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Saw your pa this morning, so I don’t need to ask about him, I guess. Where’s that side-partner of yours, Tim Daley? Don’t look natural for you to be alone.’ ‘Oh, he’s somewhere around,’ replied Pud indifferently. ‘Huh! Been and had a quarrel, have you?’ Pud chose to ignore the question. Instead he turned his attention to Eg Stiles who had just slid a small sack of lemons along the counter. Egbert was a tall, thin, sour-looking youth of sixteen. Pud didn’t like Eg, and Eg didn’t like Pud. For that matter, Eg didn’t like any one, it seemed. He was a born pessimist, and two summers under the influence of Mr. Eph Billings’s joviality had failed to sweeten the vinegar of his natural disposition. ‘How many rotten ones you got in there, Eg?’ asked Pud. ‘None,’ answered the clerk, scowling. Pud slipped off the box and emptied the lemons on the counter. Mr. Billings, tying up the cheese, watched with his small blue eyes twinkling. Pud gravely set aside two of the six lemons. ‘You’d better hustle me two more, Eg,’ he announced. ‘I don’t like ’em with green whiskers.’ ‘I gave them to you as they came,’ grumbled Egbert. ‘Those two are all right if you use them quick.’ Mr. Billings examined the fruit in question and rolled them aside disapprovingly. ‘Get a couple more, Egbert,’ he directed. ‘I’ve told you not to sell soft fruit, ain’t I? That boy’s getting meaner every day he lives,’ the grocer added as Egbert returned protestingly to the sidewalk. ‘These lemons ain’t a mite sourer than what he is! Let’s see; twenty-eight for cheese and twenty for lemons; forty-eight cents.’ He took Pud’s dollar bill and punched the keys of the cash register. ‘I suppose this is genuine, Pud? Didn’t make it yourself, did you?’ ‘Make what, sir?’ ‘This dollar. There’s been some queer money floating around here lately. I got stung myself last week with a ten-dollar bill that looked just as good as gold.’ He pushed Pud’s change across the counter. ‘Two is fifty and fifty’s one dollar. Thank you.’ ‘Say, do you mean counterfeit money?’ asked Pud eagerly. ‘Gee, Mr. Eph, I never saw any. Got any now? What’s it look like?’ ‘Never saw any, eh?’ Mr. Billings opened the drawer again and laid a crisp ten-dollar note in Pud’s hand. ‘Well, son, it looks just like that.’ Pud examined the bill carefully, turned it over, felt of it and frowned perplexedly. ‘Gee, it _looks_ all right, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Got silk threads in it and everything!’