"Wanna go there?"
"Absolutely. All the time."
"Tha's nice. College Street, you say?"
"Say, have you got anything against that street?"
"No, no. I'm going to take you there."
"All righ', Finch. Goo' friend to me."
Finch put his arm around George's neck and they made a somewhat uneven progression along the street. Coming upon a milkman, they asked him their way, but when he had directed them they questioned his directions so sceptically that he became irritated and whipped up his horse and left them. However, they followed him to his next place of delivery, calling: "Hi, there!"
"Well, what do you want?" he snarled, standing in the bluish snow, with a carrier of milk bottles in his hand.
"Do you stop here or there?" demanded George.
"Funny, ain't you?" sneered the milkman, crashing the carrier into the waggon, and leaping in after it.
"I suppose we can buy a bottle of milk," said Finch.
"Let's see your money," said the milkman, suspiciously, and his horse began to plod heavily along the accustomed route.
Finch, trotting alongside, held up a silver coin. The milkman drew in his horse and sulkily handed out a bottle. "If you'd drunk more o' this," he said, "and less o' the other, you wouldn't be where you are."
But they discovered, when they had opened the bottle, that the milk was frozen. They tried disconsolately to dig it out with a penknife, and, failing this, they broke the bottle off the milk and left the erect frozen shape standing on the nearest doorstep.
Finch again put his arms about his friend's neck, and again they set out to find the house of Mrs. St. John.
Finch cuddled George's head against his shoulder. "What are you?" he asked.
"Goo' boy," responded George.
"Tha's a wrong answer," said Finch, very gravely. "Now tell me again, what are you?"
"Goo' boy," persisted George, doggedly.
"Tha's a wrong answer."
