"Would all the people say—'pretty Jenny'?"
"No more wouldn't that surprise me," declared Mr. Vergoe.
"Would I be good?"
The old man looked puzzled.
"There's nothing against it," he affirmed. "Nothing, in a manner of speaking; but there, what some call good, others don't, and I can't say as I've troubled much which way it was, so to speak, as long as they was good pals and jolly companions everyone."
"What's pals?"
"Ah, there you've put your finger on it—as it were—what's a pal? Well, I should say he was a hearty fellow—in a manner of speaking—a fellow as would come down handsome on Treasury night when you hadn't paid your landlady the week before. A pal wouldn't ever crab your business, wouldn't stare too hard if you happened to use his grease. A pal wouldn't let you sleep over the train-call on a Sunday morning. A pal wouldn't make love to your girl on a wet, foggy afternoon in Blackburn or Warrington. What's pals? Pals are fellows who stand on the prompt side of life—so to speak—and stick there to the Ring Down."
All of which may or may not be an excellent definition of "paliness," but left Jenny, if possible, more completely ignorant of the meaning of a pal than she was when Mr. Vergoe set out to answer her inquiry.
"What's pals?" she reiterated therefore.
"Not quite clear in your little head yet—as it were—well, I should say, we're pals, me and you."