boy. A rowdy hat was set on one side of his head, after the most
approved fashion, while in his hand he held a lighted cigar, which he
applied to his mouth when he saw the parlor was unoccupied, save by
an "old woman" and a "little girl."

Instinctively 'Lena shrank from him, and withdrawing herself as far
as possible within the recess of the window, pretended to be busily
watching the passers-by. But she did not escape his notice, and
after coolly surveying her for a moment, he walked up to her, saying,
"How d'ye, polywog? I'll be hanged if I know to what gender you
belong--woman or _gal_--which is it, hey?"

"None of your business," was 'Lena's ready answer.

"Spunky, ain't you," said he, unceremoniously pulling one of the
brown curls which Durward had so longed to touch. "Seems to me your
hair don't match the rest of you; wonder if 'tisn't somebody else's
head set on your shoulders."

"No, it ain't. It's my own head, and you just let it alone,"
returned 'Lena, growing more and more indignant, and wondering if
this were a specimen of Kentucky boys.

"Don't be saucy," continued her tormentor; "I only want to see what
sort of stuff you are made of."

"Made of _dirt_" muttered 'Lena.

"I reckon you are," returned the boy; "but say, where _did_ you come
from and who _do_ you live with?"