“Tom.”
“Tom!” repeated the boy, in surprise. “Aint you a girl?”
“Yes; I expect so.”
“It’s hard to tell from your clothes, you know;” and he scanned Tom’s queer figure attentively.
Tom was sitting on a low step with her knees nearly on a level with her chin, and her hands clasped around them. She had on her cap of the morning, and her jacket, which, by the way, had been given to granny when on a begging expedition, and appropriated to Tom’s use, without special reference to her sex. Tom didn’t care much. It made little difference to her whether she was in the fashion or not; and if the street boys chaffed her, she was abundantly able to give them back as good as they sent.
“What’s the matter with my clothes?” said Tom.
“You’ve got on a boy’s cap and jacket.”
“I like it well enough. As long as it keeps a feller warm I don’t mind.”
“Do you call yourself a feller?”
“Yes.”