“What’s yer name, stranger?” he asked.
“Norman Druce.”
“He’s a lord,” said Esmeralda.
“Oh! he is, is he?” said Taffy, eying the embarrassed youth with a sort of good-natured sarcasm. “Well, I don’t know that there’s much call for lords at Three Star; but as Miss Howard”—he pronounced the name with a significant emphasis, as if he meant to impress Norman with her status and importance—“has made a kind of chum of you, you’re welcome—eh, boys?”
The men nodded; but he continued, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye:
“I don’t know as I altogether care for your name; there’s too much of the highfalutin’ about it. What do you say to”—he looked the young fellow up and down, and stared half reflectively at his fair face and yellow hair, and with a chuckle of triumph, said—“Pink Rosebud?”
“I told you so,” said Esmeralda in a low voice.
Norman laughed good-temperedly.
“That will suit me, if it will suit you,” he said, without the slightest resentment.
His manner of accepting the nickname pleased the men.