It
surely was dramatic. With the rifle across my arm and my suave
request still ringing in my ears, I felt like Black Bart, and Jesse
James, and Jack Sheppard, and Robin Hood, and whole generations of
highwaymen.
"Come, come," I said, a little sharply and in what I imagined was the
true fashion; "I am sorry to inconvenience you, believe me, but I
must have those poppies."
I absently shifted the gun and smiled. That fetched him. Without a
word he passed them over and turned his toes toward the fence, but no
longer casual and careless was his carriage, I nor did he stoop to
pick the occasional poppy by the way. That was the last of the
"Repeater." I could see by his eyes that he did not like me, and his
back reproached me all the way down the field and out of sight.
From that day the bungalow has been flooded with poppies. Every vase
and earthen jar is filled with them. They blaze on every mantel and
run riot through all the rooms. I present them to my friends in huge
bunches, and still the kind city folk come and gather more for me.
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