“You do? You ought to know me then. What is my name?”
Instinct told the girl that this must be the matron. “Old Iron Jaw,” she answered unabashed.
Mary Shane smiled grimly. “Come with me,” she ordered.
She led the way, Selina Jo following meekly, to her little cubby-hole of an office.
“Now, then,” the matron commanded sternly, “tell me the truth. How did you get in here?”
“I—I clumb that fence.”
“Why?”
“Just ’cause, ma’am, I nacherly got to git re-formed,” was the perfectly serious answer. “I ralely b’long here. I’m so p’izen mean they ain’t no other place fitten fer me.”
“What’s your name?”
Now it came, not hesitantly, but proudly—even defiantly: “S’liny Jo Hudsill!”