“We stopped to see if we could get something to eat,” began Jerry. “We’re willing to pay for it, of course,” he added, fearing the woman might think they were tramps. “Anything will do. Some cookies, a little milk or a piece of pie.”
“I guess I can fix you something,” said the woman. “Hi! You Jason!” she called in a loud voice. “Come and run this churn while I set out a lunch for some visitors.”
In answer to her hail an old man shuffled around the corner of the house.
“I’m comin’,” he said in a quavering voice. “I’m a leetle mite slow, ’cause the rheumatiz catches me to-day, Alvirah. But I’m comin’.”
“It’s my grand uncle,” the woman explained to the boys. “He’s almost ninety years old, but he can churn as good as I can. Can’t you, Jason.”
“I reckon so, Alvirah.”
While the farmer’s wife bustled around to set out a simple meal for the boys, the latter sat out on the porch watching old Jason chum. He moved the dasher up and down, a queer chugging sound following each stroke.
“How did you come, anyhow? Walk?” asked the old man presently.
“On motor-cycles,” replied Ned.