"Why do you follow me?" I retorted.
"Because I must--also it is my whim--and you so wishful to be rid o'
me! And why?" she demanded sullenly.
"I prefer solitude."
"That's a pity!"
"Under the circumstances, it is!" I agreed.
"You haven't said what you mean to do wi' me!"
"Nothing!"
"Or where you takes me to?"
"I don't know."
"You must be a fool, young man. Where shall ye stay the night?"
"I don't know this either!"
"Lord, young man, you _are_ a fool!"
"I begin to suspect I am!" said I bitterly. "However, I wish you would
not call me 'young man.'"
"Why not, young man?"
"Because I resent the appellation."
"Talk plain, young man. You do what?"
"I strongly object to the term 'young man.'"
"But you are a man, ain't you--or something like one? And then you're
young--very young, I can see that."
"I am nineteen!"
"And I am eighteen and years older than you! But if you don't like
'young man' what must I call ye?"
"Whatever you please," said I stiffly.
"I called ye 'fool' just now, but that won't do, seeing there's s'
many about, so I think you shall be 'Tom'--"
"My name is Peregrine!" said I in sudden wrath. For a moment she
viewed me with her direct, half-sullen gaze, then drooping dark
lashes, laughed with a flash of strong white teeth.
"Hoity-toity! Don't be angry, Joe!" she mocked; and then: "Peregrine,"
said she, as if trying the sound of it. "'Peregrine' sounds very fine
but then it don't agree wi' your looks--yes, I thinks Tom will suit ye
better--or Sam, p'raps.
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