“Where are you going?”
“Down to River Street. I’se pinin’ to see my ole friens. Me an’ Bylow’s not been down fo’ about a thousan’ meal times,” and he gave a push with his foot toward the plump sleeping dog.
“He don’t want to go,” observed Barry, dryly.
“I guess you’re right, mistah. I guess Bylow be jus’ as much glorified to stay to hum, but, bless you, Brick don’ care,” and he thrust his arms into a shabby coat that he took from a hook on the wall.
“How many coats have you without buttons?” asked Barry, curiously.
“Dere’s dis fellow,” said Brick, laying his hand on his chest, “an’ dat fellow,” and he brought one from the closet, “an’ de odder fellow,” and he pointed to one that Bylow lay on.
“Let’s see them all lying on the bed together,” said Barry, in an infantile way.
Brick laughed in silly glee. It was delightful to see this fine gentleman—for such the cat man was to him—taking such an interest in his wardrobe. He stripped off the coat he had on, brought another from the closet, pulled the one out from under the protesting Bylow, and laid them on the bed.
“And how many coats have you with buttons?” asked Barry.
“Only two, mistah; de fust best an’ de second best.”