“Had breakfast?” inquired the farmer.
“Oh yes, early this morning.”
“Wish I had. Next time I try t’ ring a bull’s nose ’fore I git my meal I’ll be a older man. I was goin’ t’ ask ye t’ have some breakfast with me,” he went on. “My name’s Garfield Johnson. I’ve got quite a farm.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Johnson,” said Bart, “but we’re just roughing it, and we’re not dressed for company.”
“Green onions! Neither be I!” exclaimed the farmer. “Look at my boots, all wet and my pants too. I wonder what Mandy’ll say. Mandy’s my wife,” he added, “an’ she’s dreadful particular.”
The boys beached the boat in about half an hour, and tying it fast followed Mr. Johnson to his house, facing on a lane which led out to a country road.
“We’ll go in th’ back way,” said Mr. Johnson. “Mandy’s particular about her floors, an’ I’m sorter—.” He looked down at his trousers, which still dripped water, and laughed.
Mr. Johnson introduced the boys to his wife, telling her what had happened. She insisted that the chums remain to breakfast which they did, though they had eaten a few hours previously. They declined an invitation to stay to dinner. Mr. Johnson made them take a big pail of milk, while his wife added a bag of home-made crullers and some cheese, which formed a welcome addition to their larder.
“If you row up stream a mile you’ll be right opposite the village, or you can go by the road,” said the farmer as they bade him and his wife good-bye.
Fenn and Bart decided they would walk, and let Frank and Ned row the boat up and meet them. They wanted to get some condensed milk and matches, of which they had run out.