One morning I saw him actually remove his own shoes and give them to a passing tramp who needed them worse than he.
"That's nothing, dad's money will be sufficient to buy me a new pair," he explained, going back to his tent, in his bare feet, his socks in his hand—to put on his sneakers while he hastened to the shoe store in Andersonville.
Milton had urged me to be sure to come and see him if I chanced to be in New York.
I now called him on the telephone and was cordially invited to visit him, and that, immediately.
The servants eyed me suspiciously and sent me up by the tradesmen's elevator. Milton flew into a fury over it. His friend was his friend, no matter how he was dressed—he wanted them to remember that, in the future!
He brought out a bottle of wine, had a fine luncheon set before me. I went for the food, but pushed the wine aside. He drank the bottle himself. I was still, for my part, clinging to shreds of what I had learned at "Perfection City." ...
He rushed me to his tailor. I had told him of my first poems' being accepted.
"Of course, you must be better dressed when you go to see the editor."
The tailor looked me over, in whimsical astonishment. He vowed that he could not have a suit ready for me by ten the next morning, as Milton was ordering.