A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

“The little one got it!” cried Miss Lady indignantly; “he got it first!
Give it to him this minute!”
“I be damned if I do!” shouted Skeeter, roused to fury by the combat.
“I'll be damned if you don't,” said Miss Lady, equally determined.
The skirmish was fierce but short, and by the time Don got to them, Miss
Lady had restored the spoils to the lawful victor, and was assisting the
vanquished foe to wipe the dust from his eyes.
“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. “Are you, Chick?”
He made a queer guttural sound in his throat but, his official
interpreter being by this time absorbed in the horses, was unable to
make himself understood.
“It must be awful for a boy not to be able to ask questions!” she went
on, looking down at him, then seeing something in his face that other
people missed, she suddenly drew him to her and gave him a little
motherly squeeze.
The ride home was somewhat leisurely, for the accident, slight as it
was, had sobered the riders, and there was, moreover, a subject under
discussion that called for considerable earnest expostulation on one
side, and much tantalizing evasion on the other.
“It all depends upon you,” Donald was saying, as they climbed the last
hill. “Cropsie Decker starts for the coast to-morrow but the steamer
doesn't sail for ten days. Shall I go or stay?”
“But you were so mad about it two weeks ago, you could scarcely wait to
start.”
“Lots of things can happen in two weeks. Shall I stay?”
“What do your family think about it?”
“My family? Oh, you mean my sister. She doesn't make a habit of losing
sleep over my affairs. She'd probably say go. I am rather unpopular with
her just now, because I don't approve of this affair between my niece