“What does he mean by ‘bad boy’?”
“Just what he says, Mamie, honest. Gee! you don’t think I done it, do you?”
“Have you been letting the precious lamb fight?” cried Mamie, her eyes two circles of blue indignation.
Steve’s enthusiasm overcame his sense of guilt. He uttered a whoop.
“Letting him! Gee! Listen to her! Why, say, that kid don’t have to be let! He’s a scrapper from Swatville-on-the-Bingle. Honest! That’s what all this food is about. We’re celebrating. This is a little supper given in his honour by a few of his admirers and backers, meaning me. Why, say, Kirk, that kid of yours is just the greatest thing that ever happened. Get that chafing-dish going and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“How did he come by that scratch?” said Mamie, coldly sticking to her point.
“I’ll tell you quick enough. But let’s start in on the eats first. You wouldn’t keep a coming champ waiting for his grub, would you? Look how he’s lamping that candy.”
“Were you going to let the poor mite stuff himself with candy, Steve Dingle?”
“Sure. Whatever he says goes. He owns the joint after this afternoon.”
Mamie swiftly removed the unwholesome delicacy.