“Why not let Crœsus have a whack at them?” suggested Haydock, thoughtfully.
“What!” Wolcott looked quizzical, astonished. “Oh, that would never do, Boy! It would be rotten for one college fellow to offer another one clothes.”
“I don’t see much difference between that and money.”
“Well, there is a difference, just the same. The money comes through the Secretary,—a sort of reward offered, and no questions asked. Anyhow, there’s something about money—something—Oh, you know what it is as well as I do! As soon as money belongs to you, it’s just as good as anybody’s.”
“Rather better, I should say.”
“Well, clothes aren’t.”
“Since you press me,” said Haydock, fishing among a heap of crumpled linen, “I feel obliged to possess myself of this extremely pretty necktie.” He smoothed a brilliant strip of crimson silk over his knee.
“Go on, Haystack,—what shall I do with them?”
“How many times does a simple statement have to be repeated to you before it penetrates?” Haydock rapidly began to bring a rough kind of order into the waste of shirts, neckties, odd gloves, and suits of clothes.
“Give them to Crœsus? That’s out of the question, me boy!”