When he looked up he saw a handsome, stalwart lad, bareheaded and in shirt sleeves, standing just beyond the fire, holding out with brown muscular arms a big pan of milk. The milk was spilling over the edges. And on one of his fingers hung a small bucket full of eggs. He had to balance himself carefully while he stooped to deposit the bucket of eggs on the ground.
“Hey, Johnnie, where’ll I put the milk?” he called, cheerily.
Adam was astounded, and suddenly tickled to see Genie trying to hide behind one of the packs. She succeeded in hiding all but her head, which at the moment wore an old cap that made her look more than ever like a boy.
“My name’s not Johnnie,” she flashed, with spirit.
The lad appeared nonplused, probably more at the tone of voice than the speech. Then he laughed. Adam liked the sound of that laugh, its ring, its heartiness.
“Sammy, then.... Come get this milk,” called the boy.
Genie maintained silence, but she glared over the top of the pack.
“Look here, bub,” the lad went on, plaintively, “I can’t stand this way all night. Mother wants the pan.... Boy, are you deaf?... Say, bub, I won’t eat you.”
“How dare you call me bub!” cried Genie, hotly.
“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” exclaimed the young fellow. “Listen to the kid!... I’ll call you worse than bub in a minute. Hurry, bubbie!”