“How do you do, Mr. Flunky!” she cried, her eyes as friendly as a baby’s.
Lardo the Cook, Baldy, Strip, and Rambo the Bouncer were all eyes and ears. Mangan was laughing a little forcedly. The snub-nosed cow-puncher was grinning.
Then The Falcon’s hand left the crank of the food chopper and grasped the girl’s.
“I’m happy to meet you,” he said easily. “I’m called Falcon the Flunky.”
Almost a giggle came from the Indian paint-brush lips.
“I’m Manzanita Canby,” the girl exchanged, with a roguish twinkle in her eyes. “And this is my brother, Martin—better known as Podhead. It’s a wonder Mr. Mangan wouldn’t introduce us.”
“Mr. Canby, I’m happy to know you,” Falcon the Flunky said, offering his hand to the boy and making a friend for life by calling him mister. “And Mr. Mangan is excusable, Miss Canby,” he continued, smiling easily, “for he doesn’t know me by any other name than Falcon the Flunky. It would have seemed awkward to introduce me to you as that.”
Her hazel eyes grew round. “Is—is that a—— What is it, Mr. Mangan? A moniker?”
“That’s my moniker,” said Falcon the Flunky. “You see, most tramps have monikers, and some of them are quite unique. I called myself The Falcon; and when Mr. Mangan took me on as a cook’s helper he labeled me Falcon the Flunky. It’s alliterative, and not unpicturesque, and suits me to a T.”
“But I want to know you by your real name!” she protested.