"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.