"Call you what?"
"By my old childish name."
Both the girls were distinctly disappointed. But bluff Patsy Doyle would not be denied the satisfaction of her curiosity. Within the last hour she had felt as if she had adopted this friendless boy, and some information concerning him was her due.
"Your name is A. Jones?" she aid.
"Yes."
"What does the 'A' stand for?"
There! The question was out, at last. He hesitated, flushing read. Then he replied slowly:
"It stands for one of my father's peculiarities. I think I have told you how proud he was that we are direct descendants of John Paul Jones. 'John Paul,'" he would often say, 'has ennobled the name of Jones, so that to be a Jones is to bear the proudest name known to mankind.' When I was born they were undecided what to name me. 'There is no hurry about it,' said my father; 'whatever we call him, he is a Jones.' My mother must have been something of a humorist. She kept referring to her baby as 'a Jones' until father caught the absurd idea of letting it go at that, and had me christened merely 'A. Jones.'"
"How delightful?" cried Patsy, clapping her hands gleefully. "Then 'A' doesn't stand for anything at all?"
"Oh, yes; it stands for a Jones," said the boy, making a wry face. "I think it is dreadful."