“We did not.”
“I will take the milk now, sir.” The boys turned quickly at the voice, which was deep and musical, and saw a tall, powerfully built man, whose skin and eyes were dark. He wore the usual overalls, a tan shirt open at the throat, and carried himself more like a person of importance than a working man or a farmer.
“All right, Corso. Here it is waiting for you.” Mr. Fenton handed down a covered pail.
“I thank you, sir,” Corso replied with dignity.
“Your nephew is doing an interesting job on that mud hole. The boy is a good worker.”
“He is learning. We thank you.” The man accepted the pail of milk and walked away swiftly. The boys noted that he was amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size.
“Is he a Vermonter, Uncle Norman?” Bob asked as they made they way to the dining room where the table would have groaned if it had not been accustomed to such a bounteous load.
“No, he isn’t. I really don’t know where he comes from, Bob, and my guess is Spain, although I’m probably miles off on that. He and his young nephew, a boy about thirteen, or perhaps a little older, rented a shack a mile or so up the shore; they paid several months in advance. Seem to spend their time walking, or on the lake, and I believe I’m about the only person, on North Hero Island Corso talks with, and he doesn’t say very much to me. I’ve seen the boy, of course, but I don’t know if he can speak English or not, I’ve never heard him.”
“He’s a nice looking boy,” Mrs. Fenton put in.
“Ever since they came your aunt has longed to get her motherly hands on him,” Mr. Fenton laughed.