“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, staring at her feet.
The young lady’s dresses stopped at her knees! As she swung about, a long braid of hair became visible for the first time, tipped with a dainty bow of crimson ribbon.
“Say!” he clutched her by the arm. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” she replied, wondering at his excitement.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Gorgas Levering. Same as it always was.”
“Thirteen! Jupiter Pluvius! Arrest me, somebody! Are you sure your name isn’t Keyser?”
“Keyser is my sister.”
“Thank goodness for that. Gorgas! Bad enough. But Keyser—ugh!—Are you named after a street?”
“No; family. What’s the matter? What are you looking at me that way for? Counting my freckles? Anything wrong with my feet?”