'Mr.'"

"And if it don't happen to be one's real name either," said the girl,
with an odd, timid audacity.

He looked up quickly--more attracted by her manner than her words; more
amused than angry.

"But Reddy happens to be my real name."

"Oh!"

"What made you think it was not?"

The clods over which they were clambering were so uneven that sometimes
the young girl was mounting one at the same moment that Reddy was
descending from another. Her reply, half muffled in her shawl, was
delivered over his head. "Oh, because pa says most of the men here don't
give their real names--they don't care to be known afterward. Ashamed of
their work, I reckon."

His face flushed a moment, even in the darkness. He WAS ashamed of his
work, and perhaps a little of the pitiful sport he was beginning. But
oddly enough, the aggressive criticism only whetted his purpose. The
girl was evidently quite able to take care of herself; why should he be
over-chivalrous?

"It isn't very pleasant to be doing the work of a horse, an ox, or a
machine, if you can do other things," he said half seriously.