“Queer little thing,—Betty,” Billy said as Dick stepped back to the cab again, “you never know where you have her. Full of the deuce as she can stick. Unscrupulous little rascal, too, but made of good stuff.”
“Don’t you think so?” Billy inquired presently as Dick did not answer.
“Think what?”
“That Betty’s a queer sort of girl.”
Dick took his pipe out of his pocket and began stuffing it full of tobacco. When this was satisfactorily accomplished, he struck a match on his boot heel, and lit the mixture, drawing at it critically meanwhile.
“Damn’ queer,” he admitted, between puffs.