“Say it? Why, George William Tubb,” responded Toby obligingly.
The other turned and viewed him suspiciously. Then he grunted. “Guess you don’t get it,” he muttered. “George W. Tubb, see?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” answered Toby indifferently.
“You would if you saw it written,” said Mr. Tubb gloomily. “Everybody does.” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “‘What’s the W. stand for? Wash?’ Gee, I’m sick of it. I tried to tell the guy in the office where you get registered that my middle name was Harris, but he said it couldn’t be that and begin with W. It’ll be W. in the catalogue, so you might as well know it now. Well, I’ve been ‘Wash-tub’ ever since I was a foot high, so I guess it don’t matter here!”
“What’s the difference?” asked Toby. “One nickname’s as good as another, isn’t it? Names don’t matter.”
“Some don’t. I suppose they call you ‘Red’ or ‘Carrot’ or something like that. I wouldn’t mind——”
“Hold on, Tubb!” Toby’s voice dropped a note. “No one calls me what you said. Some fellows have tried to, but they changed their minds. Understand?”
Tubb grinned. “Don’t like it, eh? Thought you said names didn’t matter! Well, I don’t like my nickname any more than you like yours; I mean what fellows started to call you.” The grin faded and Tubb’s countenance became overcast again with the settled expression of sullenness. “Anyway, what they call me here doesn’t cut any ice. I won’t be here long.”
“How’s that?” asked Toby, trying to make his question sound politely interested.
“I’m going to beat it. This ain’t any kind of a school for me, Tucker. Gee, what would I do here? Look at the gang of highbrows and mamma’s darlings! They’d stand for me about two days. I know the sort. Some of ’em come to our town in summer. Think they ever have anything to do with us town guys? Not on your life! We’re too common for ’em, the dear little Willie Boys!”