“I guess you don’t remember me,” she said in frank enjoyment of his mystification, “but I remember you perfectly. I used to see you quite often out at Westmarsh when Mr. Burnit was trying to redeem that persistent swamp. I am Mr. Platt’s sister.”
“No!” exclaimed Biff in amazement. “You can’t be the kid that used to ride on the excavating cars, and go home with yellow clay on your dresses every day.”
“I’m the kid,” said she with a musical laugh; “and I’m afraid I haven’t quite outgrown my hoydenish tendencies even yet.”
Biff had no comment to make. He was lost in wonder over that eternal mystery—the transformation which occurs when a girl passes from fourteen to eighteen.
“Don’t you remember?” she gaily went on. “You gave me a boxing lesson out there one afternoon and promised to give me more of them, but you never did.”
Biff cleared a sudden huskiness from his throat.
“I’d be tickled black in the face to make good any day,” he urged earnestly, and then hastily corrected the offer to: “That is, I mean I’ll be very glad to—to finish the job.”
I’d be tickled black in the face to make good any day
Immediately he turned violently red.