Part 3 (2/2)
”Are you trying to bluff us, Freshman?” said Cheyenne Baxter severely.
”No, sir; that's my real name.”
”Humperd.i.n.k?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Well, Rinky d.i.n.k, you've got a rotten name.”
”Yes, sir,” said Stover, who never before had felt such a longing to agree.
”How old?”
”Fifteen, sir.”
”Weight?”
”One hundred and thirty, sir.”
”Ever been in love?”
”No, sir.”
”Ever served a penal sentence?”
”No, sir.”
”Then where did you get these clothes?”
The group slowly circulated about the embarra.s.sed Stover, scanning the amazing costume. Cheyenne Baxter took up the inquisition.
”Say, d.i.n.k, honest, are these your _own_ clothes?” he said with a knowing look.
”Yes, sir.”
”Now, honest,” continued Cheyenne in a whisper, bending forward and putting his hand to his ear as though inviting a confidence.
Stover felt suddenly as though his own ears were swelling to alarming proportions--swelling and perceptibly reddening.
”What do they feed you on, Rinky d.i.n.k?” said the White Mountain Canary softly.
”Feed?” said Stover unwarily, not perceiving the intent of the question.
”Do they give you many green vegetables?”
Stover tried to laugh appreciatively, but the sound fizzled dolefully out.
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