Joe struggled valiantly to marshal his forces. To his mind, in quick
succession, came the girls with whom he had gone to school--the sisters
of the boys he knew, and those who were his sister's friends: slim girls
and plump girls, tall girls and short girls, blue-eyed and brown-eyed,
curly-haired, black-haired, golden-haired; in short, a procession of girls
of all sorts and descriptions. But, to save himself, he could say nothing
about them. Anyway, he 'd never been a "sissy," and why should he be
expected to know anything about them? "All girls are alike," he concluded
desperately. "They 're just the same as the ones you know, Kid--sure
they are."
"But I don't know any."
Joe whistled. "And never did?"
"Yes, one. Carlotta Gispardi. But she could n't speak English, and I could
n't speak Dago; and she died. I don't care; though I never knew any, I seem
to know as much about them as you do."
"And I guess I know more about adventures all over the world than you do,"
Joe retorted.
Both boys laughed. But a moment later, Joe fell into deep thought. It had
come upon him quite swiftly that he had not been duly grateful for the good
things of life he did possess. Already home, father, and mother had assumed
a greater significance to him; but he now found himself placing a higher
personal value upon his sister and his chums and friends.
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