“Oh! d–on’t b–borrer.”
“But I must bother. Wake up, I say. Fire!”
At the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically.
“Hallo! Betty—my dear Nugget—is that you? Why, where am I?”
“Your body is here,” said Betty, laughing. “When your mind comes to the same place I’ll talk to you.”
“I’m all here now, Betty; so go ahead,” said the boy, with a hearty yawn as he arose and stretched himself. “Oh! I remember now all about it. Where is your father?”
“I will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by calling me Nugget.”
“Why, don’t you know? It’s the name the men give you everywhere—one of the names at least—the Beautiful Nugget.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Nugget with a laugh and blush; “very impudent of the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others be?”
“There’s only one other that I know of—the Rose of Oregon. But come, it’s not fair of you to screw my secrets out o’ me when I’m only half awake; and you haven’t yet told me where Paul Bevan is.”