“Wa-al! I wanter know, Poke!” she drawled, looking up at the shambling youth. “Y’ don’t mean ter say you’ve got back?”
“Ye din’t tell me ter run,” said the young fellow, dropping down upon a broken box beside her.
“Wal! Plague take it! you air the laziest—— Good afternoon, Ma’am! Was you wantin’ anything?”
This last question was directed at Dorothy. The girl, quite thoughtless in her excitement, had crossed the street and stood before the woman and the youth.
“I—I—— Oh! I’d very much like to know your name,” said Dorothy, rather confused.
“Huh? Y’ got some pertic’lar reason for findin’ out, Miss?”
“Perhaps,” and Dorothy began to look at the woman more calmly.
“I ain’t none ashamed of it. It’s Daggett. Jane Daggett. And this is my boy, Poke Daggett.”
“You never were called Smith, I suppose?” queried Dorothy, quickly.
“Smith?” the woman exclaimed, and although she did not change color—she was too sallow for that—her little black eyes brightened perceptibly. “No. I can’t say I ever was. Daggett was my secon’ husban’; but I never married a Smith, an’ my own name—’fore I married a-tall—was Blinkensopp. Now, air you satisfied, Miss?”