The lad
grasped it mechanically, without removing his fixed gaze from the
apples.
"Give that to your father, Tom."
The boy answered not - his ears, his eyes, his whole soul, were
concentrated in the apples. Ten minutes elapsed, but he stood
motionless, like a pointer at dead set.
"My good boy, you can go."
He did not stir.
"Is there anything you want?"
"I want," said the lad, without moving his eyes from the objects of
his intense desire, and speaking in a slow, pointed manner, which
ought to have been heard to be fully appreciated, "I want ap-ples!"
"Oh, if that's all, take what you like."
The permission once obtained, the boy flung himself upon the box
with the rapacity of a hawk upon its prey, after being long poised
in the air, to fix its certain aim; thrusting his hands to the right
and left, in order to secure the finest specimens of the coveted
fruit, scarcely allowing himself time to breathe until he had filled
his old straw hat, and all his pockets, with apples. To help
laughing was impossible; while this new Tom o' Bedlam darted from
the house, and scampered across the field for dear life, as if
afraid that we should pursue him, to rob him of his prize.
It was during this winter that our friend Brian was left a fortune
of three hundred pounds per annum; but it was necessary for him to
return to his native country, in order to take possession of the
property.
