"It's a very uncommon name,—Jenkins; no, Judkins; something like that. Neighbors of the Bettersons; intimate friends of theirs, I mean. You think I'm not acquainted out there? Ask Carrie! ask the boys, hi, hi!"—with a giggle and a grimace, as he sipped the wine.
"You do really know my sister Caroline?" said Vinnie.
The youth set down his glass and stared.
"Your sister! I wondered who in thunder you could be, inquiring your way to Betterson's; but I never dreamed—Excuse me, I wouldn't have played such a joke, if I had known!"
"What joke?" Vinnie demanded.
"Why, there's no Jenkins,—Judkins,—what did I call their names? I just wanted to have a little fun, and find you out."
Vinnie trembled with indignation. She started to go.
"But you haven't found me out," he said, with an impudent chuckle.
"I've found out all I wish to know of you," said Vinnie, ready to cry with vexation. "I've come alone all the way from my home in Western New York, and met nobody who wasn't kind and respectful to me, till I reached Chicago to-day."
The wretch seemed slightly touched by this rebuke; but he laughed again as he finished his glass.