"Well," retorted Willie Dalzel, "you seemed to know so thundering much about 'em."
At the moment a boy came strolling down the gravel walk which led from the front door to the gate. He was about the height and age of Jimmie Trescott, but he was thick through the chest and had fat legs. His face was round and rosy and plump, but his hair was curly black, and his brows were naturally darkling, so that he resembled both a pudding and a young bull.
He approached slowly the group of older inhabitants, and they had grown profoundly silent. They looked him over; he looked them over. They might have been savages observing the first white man, or white men observing the first savage. The silence held steady.
As he neared the gate the strange boy wandered off to the left in a definite way, which proved his instinct to make a circular voyage when in doubt. The motionless group stared at him. In time this unsmiling scrutiny worked upon him somewhat, and he leaned against the fence and fastidiously examined one shoe.
In the end Willie Dalzel authoritatively broke the stillness. "What's your name?" said he, gruffly.
"Johnnie Hedge 'tis," answered the new boy. Then came another great silence while Whilomville pondered this intelligence.
Again came the voice of authority—"Where'd you live b'fore?"
"Jersey City."