“Of course, you must see Jo, Miss Pen,” said Kingdon. “I’ll drop you and the kiddies here and you can call on him. I have an idea he will be more Jo-like if my wife and I are not present.”
The car stopped near a long low building, and Pen with the children got out of the car.
“Jo-o-o!” chorused the trio.
From the house came Jo, whom the men had nicknamed the “human spider,” for his arms and legs were the thinnest of his species. He was saved from being grotesque, however, by a certain care-free grace, a litheness of movement. He had greenish-blue eyes that were set far apart and crinkled when they laughed—as ever and oft they did. His features were irregular, his hair unruly, but there was a lovable appeal in the roguish eyes and the charm of humor in a mouth that lifted upward at the corners.
“Halloa, kindergarten!” he called in a jovial tenor. “Who’s your little old sister?”
“She isn’t our sister,” denied Francis with dignified mien. “She’s a young lady.”
“Honest?” he asked in amused tone, looking down at the girl whose eyes were hidden by long-lashed, down-turned lids. “How young now?”
Then his dancing eyes grew suddenly quiet and amazed, as her lashes lifted. He read a warning in her glance.
“Jo,” she said gravely and meaningly, “I am Penelope Lamont, and I am a young lady—out of my teens.”
“’Scuse,” he answered seriously, “but you don’t dress it.”