“Yes, ma'am,” says Freckles. He stuttered a little and he was standing on one foot. “For whom?” she asked. “For Little Eva,” says Freckles. The lady stared at him, and then she smiled again. “And what do you want with Little Eva, sonny?” she said. Freckles, he stands on the other foot a while, and says nothing. And like as not he would have backed away, but Tom Mulligan yells: “You don't dast give it to her, Freck!” Then Freckles hands her the letter and gulps and says: “A letter for Miss Little Eva.” The lady takes it and reads it. And then she reads it again. And then she calls out: “Jim! Oh, Jim!” A man comes out of the tent, and she hands it to him. He reads it, and his mouth drops open, and a pipe he is smoking falls on to the grass. “Jim,” says the lady, “someone is making love to your wife!” Jim, he reads the letter again, and then he laughs. He laughs so hard he bends double, and catches the back of the lady's chair. And she laughs of a sudden and puts her hand in front of her face and laughs again. And then Jim, he says to Freckles, who has been getting redder and redder: “And who is Mr. H. Watson?” “Don't you get it?” says the lady, taking off her glasses to wipe them, and pointing to Freckles. “This is the boy that owns the dog that played the bloodhound last night, and _he_ is Mr. H. Watson!” And when she took off her glasses like that, we all saw she was the Little Eva of that show! “Mr. H. Watson,” says Jim to Freckles, “did you intend matrimony, or were you trying to flirt?” “Quit your kidding him, Jim,” says Little Eva, still laughing. “Can't you see he's hacked nearly to death?” “None of your business what I intended!” yells Freckles to Jim. And he picks up a clod of dirt and nearly hits Jim with it, and runs. And we all run. But when we had run half a block, we looked back, and nobody was following us. Jim and Little Eva had busted out laughing again, and was laughing so hard they was hanging on to each other to keep from falling down. “Good-bye, Mr. H. Watson,” yells Jim. “Is it really your own blood?” And then began a time of disgrace for Freckles and me such as I never hope to live through again. For the next thing those two boys that had been his friends was both dancing round him laughing and calling him Mr. H. Watson; and by the time we got down to the part of Main Street where the stores are, every boy and every dog in town was dancing around Freckles and hearing all about it and yelling, “H. Watson! Mr. H. Watson! Is it your own blood? Is it your own blood, Mr. H. Watson?” Freckles and I did the best we could, fighting all that was our size and some bigger; but after a couple of hours it got so that most any one could lick us. Kids that was afraid to stand up to him the day before could lick him easy, by now, and dogs I had always despised even to argue with began to get my number. All you could hear, on every side, was: “Is it your _own_ blood, Mr. Watson?”