“Who?” asked Dick. “The dog?”
“No, the poet,” replied Harry, earnestly. “Couldn’t we lend him some clothes, Roy?”
“Yes, if we knew his size. But we don’t. He may be as big as all outdoors or as small as Chub.”
“We might offer to do it, anyway,” said Chub, ignoring the insult. “I’ve got a shirt he can take, and a sweater—”
“And he can have my duck trousers,” said Dick. “We might take them over to him and tell him we’d be glad to have him come, no matter if he wasn’t dressed quite conventionally.”
“Who’ll go?” asked Chub.
“Tie the things on to Snip and let him take them,” Roy said.
“I don’t mind going,” Dick volunteered. “Get your shirt and sweater, Chub, and I’ll find those trousers. I dare say he has shoes and stockings. It’s a jolly good lark, anyhow, isn’t it?”
“It’s downright exciting,” answered Chub. “I’m all of a tremble. Want me to go along?”
“Oh, no, Chub,” said Harry, earnestly. “You mustn’t! It might embarrass him if so many went. Let Dick go alone. Tell him we don’t mind what he wears, Dick; that we will feel—feel much honored—and pleased—”