His slang puzzled the girl not a little; but the red-headed one explained:
“Suppose he did know all about you and your folks—only he didn’t want to tell?”
“But why?”
“Oh, ain’t you green?” demanded Scorch. “Don’t you see he might be making money out of you? Mebbe there’s a pile of money, and he’s using only a little for you and putting the rest of it in his pocket?”
“Oh, I don’t believe Mr. Gordon would do such an awful thing,” gasped Nancy, shaking her head vigorously.
“Well, they do it to heiresses in stories,” returned Scorch, doggedly. “And worse.”
“But I don’t believe it.”
“That’s all right—that’s all right,” said the boy. “You’re not supposed to believe it. You’re the heroine; they never believe anything but what’s all nice and proper,” urged Scorch. “You lemme alone. I’m goin’ to watch Gordon. If he’s up to something foxy, I’ll find it out. Then I’ll write to you. Say! where’s this jail they’re goin’ to put you in?”
“It’s no jail,” laughed Nancy, immensely amused, after all, by this romantic and slangy youth. “It’s a beautiful school. It’s Pinewood Hall. It’s at Clintondale, on Clinton River. And it’s very select.”
“It’s what?”