Harry's big lips spread into a grin.
"And she 's got brown eyes!" he chortled to himself.

"And she 's got brown 'air, and she 's a wye about 'er.

Oh! She's got a wye about 'er! And I 'll bet she 's going with Maurice Rodaine! Oh! She's got a wye about'er!" "Oh, shut up!" growled Fairchild, but he grinned in schoolboy fashion as he said it.

Harry poured half a can of oil upon the bearings of the chiv wheel with almost loving tenderness.
"She 's got a wye about 'er!" he echoed.

Fairchild suddenly frowned.
"Just what do you mean?
That she 's in love with Rodaine and just--" "'Ow should I know?
But she 's got a wye about 'er!" "Well," the firm chin of the other man grew firmer, "it won't be hard to find out!" And the next night he started upon his investigations.