“No, no! You know, you read a lot about rich folks taking up girls and doing everything for them–dressing them fine, and sending them to fancy schools, and all that.”
“I never read of any such thing in my life!” declared Mary Cox. “I guess you’ve been reading funny books.”
“Huh!” sniffed the castaway, who was evidently a runaway and was not made sorry for her escapade even by being wrecked at sea. “Huh! I like a story with some life in it, I do! Jib Pottoway had some dandy paper-covered novels in his locker and he let me read ’em––”
“Who under the sun is Jib Pottoway?” gasped Helen. “That isn’t a real name; is it?”
“It’s ugly enough to be real; isn’t it?” retorted the strange girl, chuckling. “Yep. That’s Jib’s real name. ‘Jibbeway Pottoway’–that’s the whole of it.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Heavy, with her hand to her face. “It makes my jaw ache to even try to say it.”
“What is he?” asked Madge, curiously.
“Injun,” returned the Western girl, laconically. “Or, part Injun. He comes from ’way up Canada way. His folks had Jibbeway blood.”
“But who is he?” queried Ruth, curiously.
“Why, he’s a puncher that works for––Well, he’s a cow puncher. That’s ’nuff. It don’t matter where he works,” added the girl, gruffly.