The gate swung open wider yet, and the small girl marched through the opening. "Tell me," she said imperiously. "I want to see it." Scott still held himself aloof, still held his trophy concealed from her curious eyes. She tried to grasp his hand, missed it, then succeeded. Then she tried to pry open the tight-shut fingers. "Show me!" she ordered. He shook his head, smiling derisively at her, while her strong little fingers did their best to pluck open his hard little fist. Without another word, she bent above his hand. An instant later, the hand flew open, and the ball of the opening thumb showed the prints of small, sharp teeth. "What is it?" she asked once more. Scott's voice dropped to a murmur which was charged with mystery. "It's a back tooth of the whale that swallowed Jonah." Instantly she struck his hand a blow that sent his trophy flying off into the thick grass beside the step. "It is not," she said shrilly. "It's nothing but a dirty old chicken bone, so there!" And then, to the unspeakable astonishment of Scott, she seated herself upon the bottom step, smoothed her calico skirt across her little knees, and prepared to await further developments in tranquil comfort. It was thus that Scott Brenton first learned the lesson that the feminine mind only gains the fullest comfort in having the last word, when it is able to sit by and watch that word sink in and be digested. Later on in his life, the lesson was repeated again and again, with an increasing list of corollaries. Oddly enough, too, it was always given to him by the selfsame teacher, sometimes with mildness, sometimes with spiritual floggings. This time, however, she appeared to be contented with the form her teaching had taken, contented, too, with its effect upon himself. Accordingly, she made no effort to continue the discussion. She merely sat there, silent, in the place whence she had ousted him, and gloated on her victory, sure that in time his masculine impatience would lead him to break in upon the pause. She knew her man. "What's your name?" Scott asked her curtly, after an interval of digging one heel and then the other into the turf beside the step. "Catie." "Catie what?" "Catie Harrison." "Huuh!" She scented criticism in his reply. "It's better than yours is," she retorted. "It is not, too," he made counter retort. "Besides, you don't know my name." Slowly the little damsel nodded, once, twice. "Yes, I do. The man told me." "What man?" "The man that sells hens' eggs to my mother. I asked him, and he told me." Scott eyed her with fierce hostility. Was there no limit to this small girl's all-penetrating curiosity? "What is it, then?" he asked defiantly. "It's Walter Scott Brenton," she assured him. And then she added, by way of turning her triumph into a crushing rout, "I think it's the homeliest name I ever heard." And once again Scott Brenton gritted his teeth upon the fact that he was downed.