"Y—yes, sir," replied Johnnie.
"Oh, be sure to sir him!" mocked Cis. "He deserves politeness!"
Big Tom showed all of his teeth. But not at what Cis had been saying; it was evident that some new and pleasant thought had occurred to him. He nodded his head over it. "I thought maybe it was that dude again," he remarked cheerfully. "But it was One-Eye fitted y' out! Hm! And when I'm off at work, instead o' doin' what y' ought t', y' fix y'rself up, don't y'?—soldier boy stuff!"
"I—I do my work in these," pleaded Johnnie. "I do! Honest! See how nice the place is! I don't shirk nothin'! 'Cause y' see, a scout, he——"
Big Tom let him get no further. "Take them rags off!" he commanded. The last trace of that smile was gone. The bulging eyes looked out through slits. That underlip was thrust forward wrathfully.
"Take your suit off, Johnnie," counseled Cis. "Don't you see he hates to have you look nice?"
"My—my scout suit!" faltered the boy. The light in those peering, bloodshot eyes told him that the longshoreman would mistreat that beloved uniform; and Johnnie wanted to gain time. Something, or some one, might interrupt, and thus stave off—what?
Barber straightened. "Take—it—off," he said quietly, but with heat; and added, "Before I tear it off."
Johnnie proceeded to carry out the order. He put the beautiful olive-drab hat on the table. Next he unfastened the neat, webbed belt, and unlaced the soldierly leggings. The emblemed coat came off carefully. The khaki shirt followed. Last of all, having slipped his feet out of the wonderful shoes, he pulled off the trousers, and stood, a pathetic little figure, in an old undershirt of Grandpa's, the sleeves of which he had shortened, and a pair of Grandpa's underdrawers, similarly cut—to knee length.
Barber stared at the underclothes. "Who said y' could wear my old man's things?" he asked.