“Ah, g’wan,” returned Master Jones. “I got a letter, that’s what. I got a letter here for——” He broke off to scan his questioner closely. “You’re the man, ain’t you? Tall, good-looker, wet pants. Say, Mister, ain’t your name Puddin’ Tame?”
“‘Puddin’ Tame’?” asked Miss Yarnell, smiling. “Is it a game you want to play, kiddy?”
“No, ma’am, ’tain’t a game. I want to see him. Say, ain’t you Puddin’ Tame?”
“I’ve been called so,” admitted Fessenden, surprised but greatly diverted. “But I’ll let you into a secret, Jimmy: it’s not my real name.”
“Aw, who said it was? Don’t I know it’s a nickname? Guess I heard of Puddin’ Tame before you was born.”
“I believe your guess is incorrect, James.”
“No, ’tain’t neither. Say, here’s the letter for you. There ain’t no answer.” He thrust an envelope into Fessenden’s fingers, and disappeared around the corner of the house with a derisive whoop.
The sound served to divert the tea-drinkers from their chatter.
“What! A billet doux already?” said Mrs. Dick Randall. “This is rushing matters, Mr. Fessenden. I think it’s only fair you should let us know who she is.” A chorus of exclamations followed, in which, however, Miss Yarnell did not join.
“Polly,” said Cresap at last, “don’t tease Fessenden. Rather, if your inferior half may venture the humble suggestion, I would urge a casual glance at his trousers. What do you see, Little Brighteyes?”