“Nellie Magoon.”
“How old are you?”
The thin little face before him grew suddenly drawn and old, and the eyes met his with a look that was half-shrewd, half-terrified, and wholly defiant.
“I’m thirteen, sir.”
“How old were you when you began to work here?”
“Twelve, sir.” The answer was prompt and sure. The child had evidently been well trained.
“Where do you live?”
“Over on the Prospect Hill road.”
“But that’s a long way from here.”
“Yes, sir. I does get tired.”