“Then you’re a queer feller.”
“Don’t you call me names, ’cause I won’t stand it;” and Tom raised a pair of sharp, black eyes.
“I won’t call you names, at least not any bad ones. Have you had any dinner?”
“Yes,” said Tom, smacking her lips, as she recalled her delicious repast, “I had a square meal.”
“What do you call a square meal?”
“Roast beef, cup o’ coffee, and pie.”
The boy was rather surprised, for such a dinner seemed beyond Tom’s probable resources.
“Your granny don’t treat you so badly, after all. That’s just the kind of dinner I had.”
“Granny didn’t give it to me. I bought it. That’s what she wants to lick me for. All she give me was a piece of hard bread.”
“Where did you get the money? Was it hers?”