“Who?”
“Towers.”
“I live there. She’s my aunt,” said Gloria defiantly.
“Then you can’t put up no innocent face,” spoke up the older girl. “Our mother says you’re all alike.”
“Sure y’u are,” scoffed the boy, who had however, forgotten all about his fight. He was just digging his heels in the ground as naturally as any other boy might have been doing, and he looked at Gloria less belligerently.
“See here,” attempted Gloria again, assuming as nearly as she could the queer tone of voice the youngster employed, “I believe we could be good friends if you would just—let me get on—to all this. Honest, I don’t know what it’s all about.”
Her manner was irresistible. Even the little rebels felt its influence.
“Maybe she don’t,” said the boy aside. A smaller boy dropped two stones right through what had seemed to be a pocket.
“Well, if you don’t know,” said the older girl crisply, “you had just better come around to our mother. She’ll tell you.”
“All right, I will,” declared Gloria accepting the challenge.