“Red nothin’! You shut up!”
“Sure it’s red! What is it, then?” The question in derision, not for information.
“It’s—it’s hair.” The defender was at a loss, not being accustomed to define.
“You bet! Red hair! Awful red hair!” The triumphant tone was for victory, not because there was any desire to disparage this newsboys’ goddess.
“Red hair yourse’f! Your mother’s red-headed!” This was a shot in the dark; acquaintance between these boys, being confined to the streets, did not embrace knowledge of family tints.
“Sh’ ain’t! Black!” The wiry little Italian struck his opponent a hard blow on the mouth with the back of his hand, and, with a growl like two puppies, they clinched.
The approaching figure broke into a run and came down upon them, the hair under dispute glowing to the utmost justification of its accuser, but the girl did not come like an avenging angel; her smile had widened and her eyes laughed with her lips, though it was a strong grasp that seized a shoulder of each combatant and swung them apart.
“Here, you young heathens, what’s the matter with you? Fend fighting!” she cried in a breezy, clear young voice. “Tony Caprioli, slow down! Mike McGinty, what’s wrong with you? Breaking the law! Fend fighting, you know, you scalawags!”
“He said you’d got red hair. I said ’tain’t,” muttered Tony, not yet “slowed down.”
“He hit me first. I didn’t mean nawthin’ but—it looked red.” Mike delicately altered the statement that he was about to make, implying that the appearance of the hair was a thing of the past.