"What?" roared Mr. Bulson, aghast at these words.

"You heard me," responded the expressman, handing Mr. Carter a hammer and
nail puller.

The conductor kneeled down and proceeded to open the box. The fat
man would have torn his hair only he was bald and there was none he
could spare.

"Get away from that box! get away!" he commanded, fairly dancing about
the car. "Do you know what I'll do? I'll sue the company."

"All right. Begin suit at once," growled Mr. Carter. "Get out an
injunction right away. Don't fret; you'll get your share of the milk with
the rest of us."

"Why, it's _all_ mine," croaked the fat man, hoarse with wrath. "I'll
show you--"

"Go 'way," ordered a burly brakeman, pushing him aside, and stooping to
help pull off the cover of the box. "You ought to be taken out and dumped
in the snow, mister. It would cool you off."

"Come, Bess!" urged Nan, anxiously. "Let's go away. We'll get the milk
for the puppy afterward. I'm afraid there will be trouble."

"I wish they would throw that mean old Bulson into the snow. He deserves
it," Bess returned bitterly.

"Do let's go away," Nan said again, as the men's voices became louder.