by A. A. Milne
“Wot! me?” exclaimed the porter. “No, sah! Ah ain’t nottin’ like dat— no, sah! Ah reckon Ah done save dat little man’s life. Yo’ know, dat little drummer wot’s trabelin’ wid de big man. Dey was castin’ lots t’ see which one should be kilt fo’ to be et by de odder— ”
“Oh, mercy!” screamed Bess, and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.
“Ya-as, indeedy, Miss! Dey was gettin’ mighty desprit. An de big feller, he says, ‘Hit don’t much matter which way de dice falls, I’m de bigges’ an’ I certainly kin holt ma own wid a little runt like you!’ He says jes’ lak’ dat to his friend, de littles’ feller.”
Nan and Bess both hid their faces behind Mr. Carter’s broad back.
“Ah got nerbous,” pursued the darkey. “Dat big man looked lak’ he was jes’ going t’ start right in on his fren’. An’ de luck turns his way, anyhow, and de lil’ feller loses. ‘I gibs yo’ ’twill six-thirty to-night,’ de big man says. ‘Dat’s ma reg’lar dinner hour, an’ I’m moughty savage ef I go much over ma dinner time.’
“Golly, boss!” added the porter, “Ah jes’ ‘bleeged tun say sumpin’, an Ah tells ’em de dinin’ kyar’ll sho’ly obertake us fo’ six-thirty. Ya’as, indeedy. An’ den, dar’s dat lady up dar wid de sour-vinegary sort o’ face. Ah jes’ heard her say she’d be fo’ced tuh eat her back-comb if she didn’t have her lunch pu’ty soon. A’ yo’ knows, Mistah Ca’tah, no lady’s indigestion is a-gwine tuh stan’ up under no sech fodder as dat.”
“You old silly!” ejaculated the conductor. “These people have been fooling you. I’ll separate those two drummers so that they won’t eat each other— or concoct any more stories with which to worry you, Nick. Come on, young ladies. We’ll see about that dog.”
“And look through the express matter— do!” begged Nan.
“Surely will,” replied the conductor. “But I expect we’ll have to tie and muzzle the express messenger.”
Bess thought this funny, too, and she giggled again. In fact, Nan declared her chum had a bad case of the “giggles” and begged her to behave herself.
“I don’t believe that castaways set out to explore their island for food in any such light-minded manner as you display, Elizabeth,” Nan observed.
“Oh, dear! I can’t help it,” Bess gasped. “That darkey is so funny. He’s just as innocent as— as— ”
“The man, Friday,” finished Nan.
“Goody! that’s who he is,” agreed Bess. “He’s Friday. Oh! if Laura Polk were only here, wouldn’t she have lots of fun with him?”
“Seems as though those two drummers were bothering poor Friday quite enough.”
They heard the little spaniel yelping the moment they opened the baggage car door.
“The poor ’ittle sing!” cooed Bess, running to the corner where the puppy was imprisoned. “Oh! how cold it is in here. It would be a little icicle, so it would be, in a little while.”
“Let’s see where he’s going, and whom he belongs to,” Mr. Carter said. “I’ll have to make a note of this, and so will Jim, the baggage-man. You want to take good care of this little tyke, for the railroad is responsible for him while he is in transit.”
He stooped down and brought his light to bear upon the tag wired to the top of the crate. “Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois,” he read aloud, making a note of it in his book.
“Oh!” ejaculated Nan.
“Oh!” repeated Bess.
Then both together the chums gasped: “That fat man!”
“Hullo!” observed the conductor, slipping the toggles out of the hasp, which kept the door of the dog crate closed. “Do you girls know the owner of this pup? You seem to know everybody.”
“We know a Mr. Ravell Bulson by sight, Mr. Carter,” Nan said quietly.
“And he’s just the meanest man!” began impulsive Bess; but her chum stopped her with a glance.
“Well! Mr. Ravell Bulson, Jr., has a fine pup here,” declared the conductor, releasing the agitated little creature.
The spaniel could not show his delight sufficiently when he was out of the crate. He capered about them, licking the girl’s shoes, tumbling down in his haste and weakness, and uttering his funny little bark in excited staccato.
Bess finally grabbed him up and, after kissing her, suddenly, right under the ear, and making her squeal, he snuggled down in her arms, his little pink tongue hanging out and his eyes shining (so Bess declared) like “two brown stars.”
“‘Brown stars’ is good,” chuckled Nan. “You’ll be talking about a cerise sky next, with a pea-green sun.”
“Such a carping critic!” returned Bess. “But what care I? His eyes are brown stars, so now! And if you’re not very good, Nan Sherwood, I’ll make him bite you.”
Mr. Carter was leading the way to the forward car, and the girls followed with the spaniel. It seemed a little lighter under the tunneled snow-bank between the two cars, and the conductor said, with some satisfaction:
“I believe it has stopped snowing and will clear up. I do surely hope that is the weather programme. We want to get out of here.”
“And walk to Tillbury?” cried Nan.
“It would be one good, long walk,” responded the conductor, grimly. “Hi, Jim!” he added to the baggage-man, whose face appeared through the tobacco smoke that filled the forward baggage car. “Jim, these young ladies are going to take care of the pup. Belongs to Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois. Make a note of it.”
“Sure!” Jim said.
“Say! that’s a funny thing,” put in another man, who wore the lettered cap of the express company. “I’ve been looking over my way-bill, Carter, and a man named Ravell Bulson of that same address has shipped a package to himself from the Bancroft Creamery siding, up above Freeling. Package marked ‘Glass— handle with care.’”
“Bully!” exclaimed the conductor. “That’s condensed milk in glass jars, I bet. A number-one product. I’ve seen it. Anything else eatable on your list?”
“Not a thing, Carter.”
“How far will twenty-four cans of condensed milk go among this gang of starving people?” growled a man in overalls and a greasy cap, whom the girls knew must be the engineer.
“You keep the fire up, Horace, so’s we can melt snow,” said the conductor, “and we can dilute the milk all right. It’s good stuff.”
“Fire!” exclaimed the engineer. “How do you expect my fireman to keep up a blaze under that boiler on the shag-end of nothing? I tell you the fire’s going out in less than an hour. She ain’t making a pound of steam right now.”
“Great Peter, Horace!” ejaculated Mr. Carter, “don’t say that. We have got to have fire!”
“Well, you show me how to keep one going,” said the engineer. “Unless you know some way of burning snow, I don’t see how you’re going to do it.”
“Take it from me, we must find a way to keep steam up in these cars,” said Mr. Carter. “We’ve shut off the last two cars. The smoker’s packed with passengers as tight as a can of sardines.”
“Oh! I wish he wouldn’t talk about things eatable,” groaned Bess, in Nan’s ear.
“Better put the women and the children in the Pullman,” suggested the baggage-man.
“Can’t. Their tickets don’t call for first-class accommodations,” said the conductor, stubbornly, “and none of them wants to pay the difference in tariff.”
“You’ve got your hands full, Carter,” said the express messenger. “How about the case of milk?” and he dragged a box into the middle of the floor.
“Say! you fellows let that case alone,” exclaimed an unpleasant voice. “That’s mine. You the conductor? I have been hunting all over for you.”
Nan and Bess had both turned, startled, when this speech began. It came from the fat man whom they had seen asleep in the smoking car. And, now that his face was revealed, the chums recognized Mr. Ravell Bulson, the man who had spoken so harshly of Nan’s father the day of the collision on Pendragon
Hill.
“Say! this is the expressman, I guess,” pursued Mr. Bulson. “You’re the man I really want to see. You’ll see my name on that box— ’R. Bulson, Owneyville, Illinois.’ That’s me. And I want to open that box and get something out of it.”
Si Snubbins Drops In
“Do let’s get out of here before he sees us,” whispered Nan to her chum.
“No, I won’t,” returned Bess, in the same tone. “I want to hear how it comes out.”
“Of course that horrid man won’t let them use the milk for the poor little children on the train. And, goodness, Bess! you’ve got his dog right in your arms this moment.”
“Well,” said the stubborn Bess, “if that fat man takes a jar of condensed milk out of that box for himself, I’ll make him give this poor little puppy some of it. Now you see if I don’t!”
At first it did not look as though the fat man was going to get any of the milk even for his own consumption. The expressman said gruffly: “I can’t let you open the package. It’s against the rules of the company.”
“Say! I shipped this package to myself. Here’s the receipt,” blustered Mr. Bulson. “I guess I can withdraw it from your care if I like.”
“Guess again, mister,” returned the expressman. “You’ve got three guesses, anyway.”
The fat man was so assertive and over-bearing that it amused the chums from Tillbury to hear him thus flouted.
“I guess you don’t know who I am?” cried the choleric fat man.
“You say your name is Bullhead— ”
“Bulson!” roared the other. “Ravell Bulson. I own that milk.”
“So it is condensed milk in that box, Mr. Bulson?” here interposed Mr. Carter, the conductor.
“Yes, it is,” said Bulson, shortly. “I had business up near the Bancroft Creamery, and I stepped in there and bought a case of milk in glass, and shipped it home. I saw it being put aboard the express car of the other train and I had an idea it would be transferred at the Junction to this train. And here it is, and I want it.”
“You’re a public spirited citizen, Mr. Bulson,” the conductor said suavely. “I expect you want to get this milk to divide among your fellow passengers? Especially among the children on the train?”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Bulson, his eyes fairly bulging out with surprise.
“You are going to open the case of canned milk for the benefit of all hands?” said Mr. Carter, sternly.
“Wha— what do you take me for?” blurted out the fat man, indignantly. “Why, that’s my milk! I’m not going to give it to anybody. What do you take me for?” he repeated.
The disgust and indignation with which Mr. Carter eyed him must have plainly shown a less thick-skinned mortal just what the conductor’s opinion was. But Mr. Ravell Bulson, like most utterly selfish men, saw nothing.
“You must think I’m silly,” pursued Bulson. “I shall want but a can or two for myself. Of course they’ll come and plow us out before long. And I promised my wife to send that milk home.”
“Wouldn’t you even give any of that milk to this poor little puppy?” suddenly demanded Bess, whose anger at the fat man had been gradually rising until now, before Nan could stop her, it boiled over.
“Heh? Who are you, Miss, if I may inquire?” snapped the fat man.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” proclaimed Bess. “I wouldn’t take a drop of that milk from you, anyway. But this poor little puppy is starving.”
“Why, I declare!” interrupted Bulson. “That’s the little dog I shipped to Junior.”
“It’s your own dog, Mr. Bulson,” Bess declared. “And he’s almost starved.”
“And what are you doing with him?” demanded the fat man, rage suddenly narrowing his eyes again. “What kind of actions are these?” and he swung on the members of the train crew once more. “My dog is given to any Tom, Dick, and Harry that comes along, while I can’t get at my own case of milk. Preposterous!”
The express messenger had received a signal from Mr. Carter, and now said:
“I tell you what it is, Mr. Bulson; I can’t help you out. The matter is entirely out of my hands. Just before you came in the conductor levied on all my goods in transit and claimed the right to seize your case of milk for the benefit of the passengers. You’ll have to send in your claim to our company, and it will get the value of the milk from the railroad people for you. That’s all there is to it.”
“What?” roared Mr. Bulson, aghast at these words.
“You heard me,” responded the expressman, handing Mr. Carter a hammer and nail puller.
The conductor kneeled down and proceeded to open the box. The fat man would have torn his hair only he was bald and there was none he could spare.
“Get away from that box! get away!” he commanded, fairly dancing about the car. “Do you know what I’ll do? I’ll sue the company.”
“All right. Begin suit at once,” growled Mr. Carter. “Get out an injunction right away. Don’t fret; you’ll get your share of the milk with the rest of us.”
“Why, it’s all mine,” croaked the fat man, hoarse with wrath. “I’ll show you— ”
“Go ’way,” ordered a burly brakeman, pushing him aside, and stooping to help pull off the cover of the box. “You ought to be taken out and dumped in the snow, mister. It would cool you off.”
“Come, Bess!” urged Nan, anxiously. “Let’s go away. We’ll get the milk for the puppy afterward. I’m afraid there will be trouble.”
“I wish they would throw that mean old Bulson into the snow. He deserves it,” Bess returned bitterly.
“Do let’s go away,” Nan said again, as the men’s voices became louder.
“Oh, dear me! you never will let me have any fun,” declared Bess, her eyes sparkling.
“Do you call a public brawl, fun?” demanded Nan, as they opened the door of the car.
At that moment, just as the two girls with the squirming, shivering puppy, were about to step out upon the platform between the baggage cars, they were startled by a muffled shout from overhead.
“Oh! what’s that?” gasped Bess.
Both she and Nan looked up. Lumps of snow from the roof of the tunnel began to fall. Then came a louder shout and a pair of booted legs burst through the roof.
“Goodness— gracious— me!” cried Nan. “Here comes— ”
“An angelic visitor!” squealed Bess.
With another shout of alarm, a snow-covered figure plunged to the platform. The cowhide boots landed first, so the man remained upright. He carried a can in each hand, and all around the covers was frozen milk, betraying at once the nature of his load.
He was a slim, wiry man, in a ragged greatcoat, a cap pulled over his ears, sparkling, little, light-blue eyes of phenomenal shrewdness, and a sparse, strawcolor chin-whisker.
“Wall, I vow to Maria!” gasped the newcomer. “What’s this I’ve dropped into?”
Bess was now laughing so that she could not speak, and the puppy was barking as hard as he could bark. Nan managed to ask:
“Who are you, sir, and where did you come from?”
“Si Snubbras is my name,” declared the “heavenly visitor.” “And I reckon I’m nearer home than you be, Miss, for I live right east of the railroad-cut, here. I was jest goin’ across to Peleg Morton’s haouse with this yere milk, when I— I sorter dropped in,” and Farmer Snubbins went off into a fit of laughter at his own joke.
An Angel With Chin Whiskers
Mr. Si Snubbins was a character, and he plainly was very much pleased with himself. His little, sharp eyes apprehended the situation quickly.
“I vow to Maria!” repeated the farmer. “Ye air all snowed up here, ain’t ye? A hull trainful o’ folks. Wall!”
“And oh, Mr. Snubbins!” said Nan Sherwood, “you have milk in those cans, haven’t you?”
“Sure have, Miss.”
“Oh, Mr. Carter!” called Nan, running back into the forward car; “here’s a man with fresh milk
. You don’t have to take Mr. Bulson’s.”
“What’s that?” demanded the baggage-man, Jim, in surprise. “Where’d he get it? From that cow-tree your friend was telling us about?”
“What’s this about fresh milk?” asked Mr. Carter. “Be still, Bulson. You roar to fit your name. We can’t hear the little lady.”
“Who’s that?” snarled the excited Bulson, glaring at Nan. “How came that girl on this train? Isn’t that the Sherwood girl?”
But nobody paid the fat man much attention just then. The crew crowded after Nan and Mr. Carter toward the open door of the car.
“Hul-lo” exclaimed Mr. Carter, when he saw the farmer and realized how he had “dropped in.” “That milk for sale?”
“Why, mister,” drawled Snubbins, “I’m under contrac’ ter Peleg Morton ter deliver two cans of milk to him ev’ry day. I wasn’t goin’ to have him claim I hadn’t tried ter fulfil my part of the contrac’, so I started ’cross-lots with the cans.”
“How’s he going to get the milk to the creamery?” demanded Mr. Carter, shrewdly.
Si’s eyes twinkled. “That’s his part of the contrac’; ’tain’t mine,” he said. “But if ye ax me, I tell ye honest, Mr. Conductor, I don’t see how Peleg’s goin’ ter do it. This is a sight the heaviest snow we’ve had for ten year.”
“What’ll you sell that milk for?” interrupted the anxious conductor. “Fresh milk will be a whole lot better for these kiddies we’ve got in the smoker than condensed milk. Just the same,” he added, “I shall hold on to Bulson’s shipment.”
“What’ll I take for this milk, mister?” repeated Snubbins, cautiously. “Wall, I dunno. I’spect the price has gone up some, because o’ the roads being blocked.”
“That will do— that will do,” Mr. Carter hastened to say. “I’ll take the milk, give you a receipt, and you can fight it out with the claim agent. I believe,” added Mr. Carter, his lips twisting into a grim smile, “that you are the farmer whose cow was killed by this very train last fall, eh?”
“Ya-as,” said Si Snubbins, sorrowfully. “Poor Sukey! She never knew what hit her.”