“Don’t you think so?”
“The folks in the office began getting fresh right away,” went on the boy, earnestly. “Some of the girls that run the typewriters was as bad as the Willy-boys, too. They’d come up and try warming their hands over my head, an’ all those back-number jokes.
“So I had ter give ’em better than they sent, or they’d have put it all over me. Men that come in to see the boss, or Old Gordon, or the others, see my fiery top-knot, and they try to crack jokes on me. So I have to crack a few.
“So that’s why I act so fresh. Natcherly I’m as tame as though I wore a velvet jacket and curls; it’s just havin’ to defend myself, that’s made me what I am,” declared Scorch, shaking his head, mournfully, as he prepared to eat his soup with much gusto.
“Oh, don’t!” begged Nancy. “Don’t make so much noise.”
“That’s so! I was thinkin’ I was at Joe’s, where I us’lly feeds,” and the boy proceeded to use his spoon with a proper regard for the niceties of the table.
“There! I knew very well you knew how,” said Nancy.
“But it hurts!” exclaimed Scorch, with a wicked grin.
“And that is never your real name?” asked Nancy, after a moment.
“‘Scorch’?”