Peter stood with one hand on the door and the tramp's dripping valise in the other, but it was evident Booge did not mean to accept Peter's attitude as an invitation to depart. He went inside and seated himself on the edge of the bunk and pulled off first one wet boot, and then the other. He paid no attention to Peter whatever but from time to time he screwed up his hairy face and winked at the boy.
“My name's Buddy,” said Buddy. “Buddy?” queried Booge. “That's a bully name for a little feller. First the Bud, an' then the Flower, an' then the Apple green an' sour.”
Peter had never seen a tramp just like Booge. He had seen tramps as dirty, and as ragged, and as hairy, but he had never seen one that little boys did not fear, and it was plain that Buddy was captivated by Booge's good-nature. But a tramp was a tramp, no matter how captivating, and a tramp was no companion for a boy who was to grow up to be a bank president, or goodness knows what, of respectability. He hardened his heart.
Booge continued to Buddy: “You didn't know I was a teacher, did you? Oh, yes, indeed! I'm an educated feller, and I figured to teach you, but it seems some folks want you to grow up just as ignorant as possible. Oh, yes!”
Peter hesitated. At any rate there was no need of making the fellow walk through the ice-covered lake again.
“What can you teach him?” he asked.
“Well, there's soprano,” rumbled Booge. “I can teach him soprano. That's a good thing for a young feller to know. Soprano or alto, just as you say—or bass. I can teach bass if the board is good. How is the board on board?”
Peter ignored the question. He was trying to guess what sort of strange creature this was.
“Well, if it's as good as you say,” said Booge, “I'll teach him all three. That's liberal. I'll give you a sample of my singin'.”
“You don't need to,” said Peter. “When I want any singing, I'll do my own.”