He was less talkative than Bill Bardin, and his speech was less picturesque than Starling Tucker's or even Trimble Cushman's, who would often threaten to do interesting and horrible things to his big dray horses when they didn't back properly; but Wilbur felt at ease with Sharon, even if he didn't say much or say it in startling words.
When Sharon had done his business the farmer came to lead the roan to the barn, and Sharon, taking a pasteboard box from the back of the buggy, beckoned Wilbur to follow him.

They went round the red farmhouse, along a grassy path carelessly bordered with flowers that grew as they would, and at the back came to a little white spring house in which were many pans of milk on shelves, and a big churn.

The interior was cool and dim, and a stream of clear water trickled along a passage in the cement floor.

They sat on a bench, and Sharon opened his box to produce an astonishing number of sandwiches wrapped in tissue paper, a generous oblong of yellow cheese, and some segments of brown cake splendidly enriched with raisins.
"Pitch in!" said Sharon.
"Yes, sir," said Wilbur, and did so with an admirable restraint, such as Winona would have applauded, nibbling politely at one of the sandwiches.
"Ain't you got your health ?" demanded the observant Sharon, capably engulfing half a sandwich.
"Yes, sir," said Wilbur.
"Eat like it then." So the boy became less conscious of his manners, and ate like it, to Sharon's apparent satisfaction.

Midway in the destruction of the sandwiches the old man drew from the churn a tin cup of what proved to be buttermilk.