From my place of vantage in Tike’s arms, I saw a surprised look flit over the widow’s face. Evidently, the man came usually to the back door.
Then, through the half open door, we all listened to what he was saying to Dud who stood part way up the walk.
“Hello,” said the milkman, “how’s your cough? You’re out early for a sick man.”
“Better,” said Dud in a stifled voice. “I was upset about my dog—came to get him. He ran away.”
“Did he,” said the milkman indifferently. Then his eye fell on the broken glass.
“Hi!” he said in a drawling voice, “looks as if the widder had been getting gay.”
“She’s all right,” said Dud gruffly. “I guess my dog did it. He often rampages round, and breaks things.”
“That medium-sized black feller,” said the milkman—“always looks mild as milk to me.”
“He’s awful when he gets started,” said Dud—“a regular spitfire. That’s why we keep him chained—I say, you’re not going near the station, are you?”