“I haven’t time to change them. Besides my Sunday suit isn’t much better.”
At the table, toward the close of the meal, Rodney said, “Grandfather, Grant isn’t dressed very well.”
Seth Tarbox frowned.
“Has he been complaining to you?” he asked. “He’s been pesterin’ all the mornin’ about new clothes. I told him money was skerce.”
“I can save you expense, grandfather. I will give him an old suit of mine—one I have cast off.”
“Why, that’s an excellent plan,” said Tarbox, brightening up. “Do you hear that, Grant? You won’t need to buy a new suit for yourself now.”
“I don’t care for any of Rodney’s old clothes,” answered Grant, with an indignant flush.
“Sho! sho! You’re acting very contrary. Rodney’s suit is a good deal better than yours, I’ve no doubt.”
“I don’t know whether it is or not, but I’m entitled to new clothes, and I want them.”
“What do you say to that, Mrs. Tarbox?” demanded the farmer, looking over at his wife.