"I shall call ye 'Robert,' boy. I don't like—er—that other name."
There was a prolonged stare and a low whistle from the boy. Then he turned to pick up his bundle.
"Come on, Bones, stir yer stumps; lively, now! This 'ere lady 's a-goin' ter take us ter her shebang ter stay mos' two weeks. Gee-whiz! Bones, ain't this great!" And with one bound he was off the platform and turning a series of somersaults on the soft grass followed by the skinny, mangy dog which was barking itself nearly wild with joy.
Ann Wetherby gazed at the revolving mass of heads and legs of boy and dog in mute despair, then she rose to her feet and started down the street.
"You c'n foller me," she said sternly, without turning her head toward the culprits on the grass.
The boy came upright instantly.
"Do ye stump it, marm?"
"What?" she demanded, stopping short in her stupefaction.
"Do ye stump it—hoof it—foot it, I mean," he enumerated quickly, in a praise-worthy attempt to bring his vocabulary to the point where it touched hers.
"Oh—yes; 't ain't fur," vouchsafed Ann feebly.