"Well, partner," said Donald to Chick, "what have you got to say to
the young lady for taking your part?"
"He ain't got nothin' to say," said Skeeter glibly. "He's dumb. Nobody
but me can't understand him. He says thank you, ma'am."
Chick having uttered no sound, it was evident that Skeeter depended
upon telepathy.
"He's a ash-barrel baby," went on Skeeter, eager to impart
information; "he ain't got no real folks, and he's been to the
Juvenile Court twict; onct for hopping freights and onct fer me and
him smashin' winders."
All eyes were turned upon the hero, who immediately became absorbed in
his whip-handle. He was small, and exceedingly thin, and exceedingly
dirty. The most conspicuous things about him were his large, wistful
eyes, and his broad smile that showed where his teeth were going to
be. Across his narrow chest a ragged elbowless coat was hitched
together by one button, while a pair of bare, spindling legs dwindled
away respectively into a high black shoe, and a low-cut tan one, both
of which were well ventilated at the heels.
"I don't believe he's very bad," smiled Miss Lady, catching his chin
in her hand and turning his face up to hers.
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