The fat-faced boy still appeared embittered, burlesquing this speech in a hateful falsetto. "'Rupe Collins is your name, then, I guess!' Oh, you 'kind of thought it was, all the time,' did you?" Suddenly concentrating his brow into a histrionic scowl he thrust his face within an inch of Penrod's. "Yes, sonny, Rupe Collins is my name, and you better look out what you say when he's around or you'll get in big trouble! You understand that, 'bo?"
Penrod was cowed but fascinated: he felt that there was something dangerous and dashing about this newcomer.
"Yes," he said, feebly, drawing back. "My name's Penrod Schofield."
"Then I reckon your father and mother ain't got good sense," said Mr. Collins promptly, this also being formula.
"Why?"
"'Cause if they had they'd of give you a good name!" And the agreeable youth instantly rewarded himself for the wit with another yell of rasping laughter, after which he pointed suddenly at Penrod's right hand.
"Where'd you get that wart on your finger?" he demanded severely.
