"I'd have been more
surprised if you hadn't. Why, my grief! I know enough about
human nature, I hope, to expect--"
"Churning?" The voice of Baumberger purred down to them. There
he stood bulkily at the top of the steps, good-naturedly
regarding them. "Mr. Hart and I are goin' to take a ride up to
the station--gotta send a telegram or two about this little
affair"--he made a motion with his pipe toward the orchard--"and
I just thought a good, cold drink of buttermilk before we start
wouldn't be bad." His glance just grazed Good Indian, and passed
him over as being of no consequence.
"If you don't happen to have any handy, it don't matter in the
least," he added, and turned to go when Phoebe shook her head.
"Anything we can get for yuh at the store, Mrs. Hart? Won't be
any trouble at all--Oh, all right." He had caught another shake
of the head.
"We may be gone till supper-time," he explained further, "and I
trust to your good sense, Mrs. Hart, to see that the boys keep
away from those fellows down there.
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