"They're too small for Grandpa," declared Cis, stoutly. "Johnnie might as well wear them. If he didn't, I'd throw them away, or use them for dishcloths."
Barber did not notice the girl. "Nobody," he repeated. "But y' go ahead and use the scissors on 'em!"
"Your shirts 're so big," reminded Johnnie; "and the pants, too. And if I didn't wear nothin', why, I'd dirty the new uniform, wearin' it next my skin, and so——"
"Fold that truck up!" came the next command.
Under Grandpa's old, torn undershirt, Johnnie's heart began to beat so hard that he could hear it. But quietly and dutifully he folded each dear article, and placed all, one upon another, neatly, the hat topping the pile. Finished, he stood waiting, and his whole body trembled with a chill that was not from cold or fear, but from apprehension. Oh, what was about to happen to his treasured uniform?
Cis was silent now, refraining from angering Big Tom at a time when it was possible for him to vent his rage on Johnnie's belongings. But she watched him breathlessly as he rose and went to the table, and reached to take the books.
"So y' keep 'em upstairs?" he said to Johnnie.
"Yes, sir,"—it was a whisper.
"She's accommodatin', ain't she, the old lady?"