"Who is Royal?"
"Who is Royal?" repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face at her.
"He means me. My name is Royal,—Royal Purcel; and he," nodding towards the child, "is my brother."
"Royal Purcel! What a funny name! It sounds—"
"Don't, Elsie," remonstrated Marge.
"It sounds just like Royal Purple," giggled Elsie, regardless of her sister's remonstrance.
Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royal thrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another word or glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace.
"Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life," said Elsie. "A boy that can't take a joke I don't think is much of a boy."
"Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they're more'n ever so now," said Rhoda.
"Why?" asked Marge.