“Where did he come from?” asked McGowan.
“He say dot he come from Yuma,” was the stifled response.
“Yuma!” muttered Bernritter. “Why, they have a penitentiary at Yuma. Possibly the Dutchman broke away from there and——”
Frieda lifted her head quick enough, at that. Her eyes snapped, and she stamped her foot.
“You t’ink he vas a chailpird, huh?” she cried fiercely. “Vell, you haf some more t’inks coming. He iss a chentleman, I tell you.”
“His full name is——” began McGowan, then stopped inquiringly.
“Villum von Schnitzenhauser,” cried the girl, throwing back her shoulders proudly, “und he iss a baron ven he iss at home in der Faterland.” She folded her arms. “Now, I bed you,” she said, with an angry flash at the super, “you von’t say dot he iss some chailpirds! A baron! Ha! Baron von Schnitzenhauser, und a pedder man as you, Nade Pernritter.”
“Baron!” sneered the super. “Bosh! That makes me think more than ever that he’s crooked.” He turned to McGowan. “The Dutchman wouldn’t tell the girl such a yarn as that if he was straight.”
“Look, vonce,” cried Frieda. “He von py his pravery der orter oof der Plack Eagle, und he showed id to me. So!”