“Little GEN-TIL-MUN!” shrieked Marjorie, with a wild stroke that landed full upon Penrod's tarry cap.
“OOOCH!” bleated Penrod.
“It's Penrod!” shouted Sam Williams, recognizing him by the voice. For an instant he had been in some doubt.
“Penrod Schofield!” exclaimed Georgie Bassett. “WHAT does this mean?” That was Georgie's style, and had helped to win him his title.
Marjorie leaned, panting, upon her stick. “I cu-called—uh— him—oh!” she sobbed—“I called him a lul-little—oh—gentleman! And oh—lul-look!—oh! lul-look at my du-dress! Lul-look at Mumitchy—oh—Mitch—oh!”
Unexpectedly, she smote again—with results—and then, seizing the indistinguishable hand of Mitchy-Mitch, she ran wailing homeward down the street.
“'Little gentleman'?” said Georgie Bassett, with some evidences of disturbed complacency. “Why, that's what they call ME!”
“Yes, and you ARE one, too!” shouted the maddened Penrod. “But you better not let anybody call ME that! I've stood enough around here for one day, and you can't run over ME, Georgie Bassett. Just you put that in your gizzard and smoke it!”
“Anybody has a perfect right,” said Georgie, with, dignity, “to call a person a little gentleman. There's lots of names nobody ought to call, but this one's a NICE——”
“You better look out!”