"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."
"But the claim agent knew what hit the road when you put in your claim.
That old cow wasn't worth more than ten dollars and you demanded fifty.
Don't raise the tariff on this milk proportionately, for I'm sure the
agent will not allow the claim."
Mr. Snubbins grinned and chuckled.
"I'll run my risk—I'll run my risk," he responded. "You kin have the milk for nawthin', if ye want it so bad. Bein' here all night, I expect ye be purty sharp-set, the whole on ye."
Mr. Carter had picked up the cans and had gone forward to have the milk thawed out at the boiler fire. Some of the brakemen had cleared away the snow by now and there was an open passage to the outside world. The keen kind blew in, and the pale, wintry sunshine lighted the space between the baggage cars. Mr. Snubbins grinned in his friendly way at the two girls.
"I reckon you gals," he said, "would just like to be over to my house where my woman could fry you a mess of flap-jacks. How's that?"
"Oh, don't mention it!" groaned Bess.