“Just a minute,” exclaimed a well-built boy of medium height who held a pair of running shoes on his knees. “I didn’t quite get that. About our being used to rats, Freckles. Come again, please.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Ira innocently.
“The gentleman wishes to know,” explained the dark-haired boy sweetly, “the meaning of your cryptic utterance. Why, Mr. Johnson, should our being together make us used to rats?”
“My name is Rowland.”
“Really? Well, then, Mr. Rowland, kindly elucidate.”
“I guess I don’t know what you want,” said Ira, viewing them blankly.
“Of course he doesn’t,” said another member of the group. “He didn’t mean anything. What class are you in, Hayseed?”
“Who, me? I’m going into the third, I guess.”
“Then you’ve got another guess,” jeered the boy with the running shoes. “How were the crops when you left home, Freckles?”