“Whatta hellsa matter wit choo?”
She felt the unusual concern in his voice, and smiled at him as best she could:
“I got a kind of a jolt. I seen this here pitcher, and I thought for a minute it was my sister.”
“Your sister? How’d she get her pitcher in the paper? Who did she shoot?”
He snatched the sheet from her and saw the young woman in the young-manly garb.
Jake gloated over the picture: “Some looker! What is she, a queen in burlecue?”
Mrs. Nuddle held out the burned sliver of paper.
He roared. “London’s ranging beaut? And you’re what thinks she’s your sister! The one that ran away? Was she a beaut like this?”
Mrs. Nuddle nodded. He whistled and said, with great tact:
“Cheese! but I have the rotten luck! Why didn’t I see her first? Whyn’t you tell me more about her? You never talk about her none. Why not?” No answer. “All I know is she went wrong and flew the coop.”