“This looks good to me,” said Fleet, as the green meadows and comfortable-looking groves came into sight. “I don’t wonder that Bert Creighton thinks he lives in the only place in the world.”
“Look at the cows grazing on the hillside yonder,” said Pod. “Hope they belong to Bert. That means fresh milk and butter, buttermilk and eggs, and——”
“Whoa!” cried Tom. “If you get eggs from those cows, you’ll be doing something miraculous, Podsy.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Pod. “But where there are cows there are usually chickens, and eggs seem to go naturally with milk and butter.”
“Don’t discuss such subjects,” said Fleet. “You make me hungry.”
“Oh, you’re always hungry—couldn’t fill you up if they poured a perpetual stream of food down your throat,” said Pod.
“Nothing like a good appetite,” said Fleet. “If I look at these hills and dales much longer, I shall break forth into verse.”
“Then don’t look at them,” advised Chot.
“I believe I feel a poem coming on.”
“Well, put on the safety valve. Hello! Who’s that? As I live, it’s Bert Creighton!”