“I’ll take a quart of milk,” Miss Ward decided, selecting a bottle from the rack.
“How about regular delivery?”
“We’ve rented the cottage for my aunt, who won’t be here for a day or two,” Judy explained. “If you’ll drop by later on, I’m certain she’ll sign up.”
“Cloverleaf supplies the best,” the young man said. “My name, by the way, is Bart Ranieau.”
“You must be of French descent,” Miss Ward remarked.
“My father came from France, but I inherited my red hair and my temper from my mother. I’m a mixture—like Pete here.”
The cheerful milkman indicated the little dog that was sniffing at Judy’s heels.
“He’s real cute,” she declared, patting him. “You call him Pete?”
“He’s mine only by adoption,” Bart replied. “He kept following my truck, so finally I let him ride. Now he sticks like a burr. Never could find his owner.”
Picking up the rack of bottles which he had set down on the porch, the young milkman turned to leave. Directing his remark at Judy, he said in an offhand way: “Your aunt is the hardy type, I hope. Not the kind that worries about strange noises?”