“But every farmer doesn’t own a bull, Buster,” remarked George.
“Well, I object to bulldogs just as much. Little fellows are all right, likewise pussy cats; but deliver me from the kind that hold on to all they grab. Nixey. You and Jack try it this time, George.”
“That’s only fair,” spoke up the latter, immediately.
“Well,” said George, “if we’re going, the sooner we start the better; because you see the old sun is hanging right over the horizon.”
“And I’m nearly caved in for want of proper nourishment,” grumbled Nick.
No one paid any particular attention to his remark; because that condition was a regular part of his lamentations several times a day. The only time Nick seemed to be in a state of absolute contentment was the half hour following a gorging bee; and then he beamed satisfaction.
Accordingly the pair started forth, armed with a tin bucket for the milk. George had no great love for biting dogs himself, and as they approached the vicinity of the farm buildings he suggested to his companion that they arm themselves with stout canes, with which they might defend themselves in case of an emergency.
“Looks like a prosperous place, all right,” Jack observed as they saw the buildings and the neat appearance of things in general.
“But seems to me it’s awful lonely here,” remarked George. “Where can the people all be? Don’t see any children about, or women folks. Plenty of cows and chickens, but sure they can’t take care of themselves.”