“The little one got it!” cried Miss Lady indignantly; “he got it first! Give it to him this minute!”
“I be damned if I do!” shouted Skeeter, roused to fury by the combat.
“I'll be damned if you don't,” said Miss Lady, equally determined.
The skirmish was fierce but short, and by the time Don got to them, Miss Lady had restored the spoils to the lawful victor, and was assisting the vanquished foe to wipe the dust from his eyes.
“Well, partner,” said Donald to Chick, “what have you got to say to the young lady for taking your part?”
“He ain't got nothin' to say,” said Skeeter glibly. “He's dumb. Nobody but me can't understand him. He says thank you, ma'am.”
Chick having uttered no sound, it was evident that Skeeter depended upon telepathy.
“He's a ash-barrel baby,” went on Skeeter, eager to impart information; “he ain't got no real folks, and he's been to the Juvenile Court twict; onct for hopping freights and onct fer me and him smashin' winders.”
All eyes were turned upon the hero, who immediately became absorbed in his whip-handle. He was small, and exceedingly thin, and exceedingly dirty. The most conspicuous things about him were his large, wistful eyes, and his broad smile that showed where his teeth were going to be. Across his narrow chest a ragged elbowless coat was hitched together by one button, while a pair of bare, spindling legs dwindled away respectively into a high black shoe, and a low-cut tan one, both of which were well ventilated at the heels.
“I don't believe he's very bad,” smiled Miss Lady, catching his chin in her hand and turning his face up to hers. “Are you, Chick?”