“Gee, I thought nobuddy but poor guys slep’ outdoors.”
“It’s the poor guys that sleep indoors,” said Roy.
“Don’ de wind git on ye?”
“Sure—gets all over you; it’s fine.”
“My father give me a raw hand-out, all right, and then some more.”
“Well, there’s no use fighting your pack.”
“Yer what?”
“Your pack—as Dan Beard says.”
“Who’s he—one o’ your crowd?”
“You bet he is. ‘Fighting your pack’ is scrapping with your job—with what can’t be helped—kind of. See?”