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“How’s the cut getting on?” Toby asked.

“All right,” the other answered without turning his head. Then: “Say,” he challenged.

“Yes?”

“Your name’s Tucker, ain’t it?”

“Yes. What’s yours, by the way?” Toby was sorry he had asked as soon as the question was out.

“Tubb,” was the answer, “George Tubb.” There was a pause. Then, defiantly: “Middle name’s William. Go on and say it!”

“Say it? Why, George William Tubb,” responded Toby obligingly.

The other turned and viewed him suspiciously. Then he grunted. “Guess you don’t get it,” he muttered. “George W. Tubb, see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” answered Toby indifferently.

“You would if you saw it written,” said Mr. Tubb gloomily. “Everybody does.” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “‘What’s the W. stand for? Wash?’ Gee, I’m sick of it. I tried to tell the guy in the office where you get registered that my middle name was Harris, but he said it couldn’t be that and begin with W. It’ll be W. in the catalogue, so you might as well know it now. Well, I’ve been ‘Wash-tub’ ever since I was a foot high, so I guess it don’t matter here!”