Hesba Stretton - The Ultimate Christmas Library - 100+ Authors, 200 Novels, Novellas, Stories, Poems and Carols

Bess finally grabbed him up and, after kissing her, suddenly, right under the ear, and making her squeal, he snuggled down in her arms, his little pink tongue hanging out and his eyes shining (so Bess declared) like “two brown stars.”

“‘Brown stars’ is good,” chuckled Nan. “You’ll be talking about a cerise sky next, with a pea-green sun.”

“Such a carping critic!” returned Bess. “But what care I? His eyes are brown stars, so now! And if you’re not very good, Nan Sherwood, I’ll make him bite you.”

Mr. Carter was leading the way to the forward car, and the girls followed with the spaniel. It seemed a little lighter under the tunneled snow-bank between the two cars, and the conductor said, with some satisfaction:

“I believe it has stopped snowing and will clear up. I do surely hope that is the weather programme. We want to get out of here.”

“And walk to Tillbury?” cried Nan.

“It would be one good, long walk,” responded the conductor, grimly. “Hi, Jim!” he added to the baggage-man, whose face appeared through the tobacco smoke that filled the forward baggage car. “Jim, these young ladies are going to take care of the pup. Belongs to Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois. Make a note of it.”

“Sure!” Jim said.

“Say! that’s a funny thing,” put in another man, who wore the lettered cap of the express company. “I’ve been looking over my way-bill, Carter, and a man named Ravell Bulson of that same address has shipped a package to himself from the Bancroft Creamery siding, up above Freeling. Package marked ‘Glass— handle with care.’”

“Bully!” exclaimed the conductor. “That’s condensed milk in glass jars, I bet. A number-one product. I’ve seen it. Anything else eatable on your list?”

“Not a thing, Carter.”

“How far will twenty-four cans of condensed milk go among this gang of starving people?” growled a man in overalls and a greasy cap, whom the girls knew must be the engineer.

“You keep the fire up, Horace, so’s we can melt snow,” said the conductor, “and we can dilute the milk all right. It’s good stuff.”

“Fire!” exclaimed the engineer. “How do you expect my fireman to keep up a blaze under that boiler on the shag-end of nothing? I tell you the fire’s going out in less than an hour. She ain’t making a pound of steam right now.”

“Great Peter, Horace!” ejaculated Mr. Carter, “don’t say that. We have got to have fire!”

“Well, you show me how to keep one going,” said the engineer. “Unless you know some way of burning snow, I don’t see how you’re going to do it.”

“Take it from me, we must find a way to keep steam up in these cars,” said Mr. Carter. “We’ve shut off the last two cars. The smoker’s packed with passengers as tight as a can of sardines.”

“Oh! I wish he wouldn’t talk about things eatable,” groaned Bess, in Nan’s ear.

“Better put the women and the children in the Pullman,” suggested the baggage-man.

“Can’t. Their tickets don’t call for first-class accommodations,” said the conductor, stubbornly, “and none of them wants to pay the difference in tariff.”

“You’ve got your hands full, Carter,” said the express messenger. “How about the case of milk?” and he dragged a box into the middle of the floor.

“Say! you fellows let that case alone,” exclaimed an unpleasant voice. “That’s mine. You the conductor? I have been hunting all over for you.”

Nan and Bess had both turned, startled, when this speech began. It came from the fat man whom they had seen asleep in the smoking car. And, now that his face was revealed, the chums recognized Mr. Ravell Bulson, the man who had spoken so harshly of Nan’s father the day of the collision on Pendragon Hill.

“Say! this is the expressman, I guess,” pursued Mr. Bulson. “You’re the man I really want to see. You’ll see my name on that box— ’R. Bulson, Owneyville, Illinois.’ That’s me. And I want to open that box and get something out of it.”

“Do let’s get out of here before he sees us,” whispered Nan to her chum.

“No, I won’t,” returned Bess, in the same tone. “I want to hear how it comes out.”

“Of course that horrid man won’t let them use the milk for the poor little children on the train. And, goodness, Bess! you’ve got his dog right in your arms this moment.”

“Well,” said the stubborn Bess, “if that fat man takes a jar of condensed milk out of that box for himself, I’ll make him give this poor little puppy some of it. Now you see if I don’t!”

At first it did not look as though the fat man was going to get any of the milk even for his own consumption. The expressman said gruffly: “I can’t let you open the package. It’s against the rules of the company.”

“Say! I shipped this package to myself. Here’s the receipt,” blustered Mr. Bulson. “I guess I can withdraw it from your care if I like.”

“Guess again, mister,” returned the expressman. “You’ve got three guesses, anyway.”

The fat man was so assertive and over-bearing that it amused the chums from Tillbury to hear him thus flouted.

“I guess you don’t know who I am?” cried the choleric fat man.

“You say your name is Bullhead— ”

“Bulson!” roared the other. “Ravell Bulson. I own that milk.”

“So it is condensed milk in that box, Mr. Bulson?” here interposed Mr. Carter, the conductor.

“Yes, it is,” said Bulson, shortly. “I had business up near the Bancroft Creamery, and I stepped in there and bought a case of milk in glass, and shipped it home. I saw it being put aboard the express car of the other train and I had an idea it would be transferred at the Junction to this train. And here it is, and I want it.”

“You’re a public spirited citizen, Mr. Bulson,” the conductor said suavely. “I expect you want to get this milk to divide among your fellow passengers? Especially among the children on the train?”

“What’s that?” exclaimed Bulson, his eyes fairly bulging out with surprise.

“You are going to open the case of canned milk for the benefit of all hands?” said Mr. Carter, sternly.

“Wha— what do you take me for?” blurted out the fat man, indignantly. “Why, that’s my milk! I’m not going to give it to anybody. What do you take me for?” he repeated.

The disgust and indignation with which Mr. Carter eyed him must have plainly shown a less thick-skinned mortal just what the conductor’s opinion was. But Mr. Ravell Bulson, like most utterly selfish men, saw nothing.

“You must think I’m silly,” pursued Bulson. “I shall want but a can or two for myself. Of course they’ll come and plow us out before long. And I promised my wife to send that milk home.”

“Wouldn’t you even give any of that milk to this poor little puppy?” suddenly demanded Bess, whose anger at the fat man had been gradually rising until now, before Nan could stop her, it boiled over.

“Heh? Who are you , Miss, if I may inquire?” snapped the fat man.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” proclaimed Bess. “I wouldn’t take a drop of that milk from you, anyway. But this poor little puppy is starving.”

“Why, I declare!” interrupted Bulson. “That’s the little dog I shipped to Junior.”

“It’s your own dog, Mr. Bulson,” Bess declared. “And he’s almost starved.”

“And what are you doing with him?” demanded the fat man, rage suddenly narrowing his eyes again. “What kind of actions are these?” and he swung on the members of the train crew once more. “My dog is given to any Tom, Dick, and Harry that comes along, while I can’t get at my own case of milk. Preposterous!”