“Our friend, Mr. Billie Bowling, learned it us,” said Dot, referring to the deckhand before mentioned. “Do you really want to hear it?”
“Sure,” said Neale. “Is it good enough to sing at a concert?”
“Of course,” said Tess scornfully. “I’d sing it at a Sunday school concert.”
But after Neale heard it, and had recovered from his paroxysm of laughter, he said breathlessly:
“Don’t let Ruth hear of your singing that in Sunday school. But it will be a knockout at this cabin concert, Miss Hastings.”
“It will! It will,” agreed the Back Bay girl. “You muthtn’t tell anybody about it, children. You can rehearthe in my thtateroom. Oh! You tell them, Mr. O’Neil.”
What made Agnes mad—and she admitted it to any of the party who would listen—was the bold way in which Neale did it! To think of his walking right up to Nalbro Hastings and talking to her as though she was—was—well! Just common folks!
“She is,” growled Neale, at last getting rather tired of Agnes’ complainings. “She doesn’t claim to be any different from other people.”
“I’d like to know!” was his friend’s scornful remark. “And with her nose stuck up the way it is?”