With the question the girl had turned to Dr. Armstrong; then, finding his eyes still intently studying her, she once more gave her attention to the waif.
“Really, I did forget them,” she asserted. “You shall have a new suit long before you need it.”
“Cert’in dat oin’t no fake extry youse shoutin’?”
“Truly. How old are you?”
“Wotcher want to know for?” suspiciously asked the boy.
“So I can buy a suit for that age.”
“Dat goes. Ise ate.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Swot.”
“What?” exclaimed the girl.