"Well, say, s'pose we quit chewing th' rag an' start in an' get 'em. There's a Sheeny store on Ninth Avenue where you can get dandy shirts for fifty cents a throw."
"Sounds fairly reasonable!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee as they turned up Thirty-ninth Street.
"Then you want a new lid, Geoff!"
Mr. Ravenslee took off the battered hat and looked at it.
"What's the matter with this?" he enquired.
"Nothin', Geoff, only it wants burnin'," sighed Spike. "An' then—them boots—oh, gee!"
"Are they so bad as that?"
"Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N' York. Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn't be seen dead in 'em; look at th' patches. Gee whizz! Where did His Whiskers dig 'em up from?"
"I fancy they were his own—once," answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.
"Well, I'll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain't such a phoney pair in Manhattan Village."