“I say,” said Tom.
“What do you say?” replied Gypsy.
“What do you suppose mother would have to say to you about this looking room?”
“I don’t know what she’d say to you, I’m sure,” said Gypsy, gravely.
“And you, a great girl, twelve years old!”
“I should like to know why I’m a railroad, anyway,” said Gypsy.
“Who said you were a railroad?”
“Whoever wrote Gypsy Breynton, R. R., with my red ink.”
“That doesn’t stand for railroad.”
“Doesn’t? Well, what?”