A lad—and a very odd-looking lad indeed—had just stepped from behind a wagon and was surveying them with a curious mixture of amusement and surprise. He appeared to be about fifteen years of age. His round, chubby face was liberally besprinkled with freckles; a mop of thick yellowish hair, supporting a dilapidated cap, straggled across a broad forehead, the wind occasionally blowing it in his eyes.
Dave found it difficult to repress a laugh.
“Looks like a real little character,” he said, softly, to himself.
“Hello, Jumbo, what’s up?” repeated the boy.
He shuffled forward, his movements being somewhat impeded by a huge bucket of water in one hand and a broom in the other.
“Say—if ye’re abusin’ that little kid I won’t stan’ for it. Do you get me?” he exclaimed.
Victor, already angry, bristled up.
“Why, we were only fooling, you silly duffer,” he retorted; “and——”
“Good-morning!” put in Dave, politely.
“Mornin’! Weren’t no scrap, then? Say, Jumbo, you’re too late; Whiffin’s hired a fat man a’ready. You lookin’ for a job, Buster?”