I looked up and down the road. "I don't see it coming," I said anxiously. "What's it look like?"
"Milk. You don't happen to have any, I suppose?"
I felt in my pockets.
"There, now," I said, "I must have left it on the piano. I got up rather hurriedly this morning," I added apologetically.
"Never mind."
"I'll tell you what, booth, I'll go and get some."
"No, thanks very much. Don't you bother; it'll come along presently."
"Are you sure? This isn't 'The Blue Bird.'"
"Yes, it's all right—really."
There was another pause. Then: