The Crimson Sweater

by Ralph Henry Barbour

"I haven't, Harry."

"You have, too! So! And you—you're very impolite!"

"Oh, pshaw, there's no use in getting mad about it. I only said—"

"I'll get mad if I want to," said Harry hotly. "And I guess I can keep a promise as well as you can. You're just stuck-up because you made that old touchdown!"

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"My, what a temper! Just what you'd expect of a girl with red hair! Why, I wouldn't—"

But he stopped there, for Harry's face went suddenly white with rage and she gasped as though he had struck her.

"Now look here, Harry," he began contritely. But Harry had found her tongue and he got no farther.

"Oh, you coward!" she cried, trembling. "You—you beast! I know my hair's red, and I don't care if it is! And, anyway, I'd rather have it red than just no color at all, like—like a fish!"