“What won’t do?” asked Cal, pausing on his way to the closet with his winter overcoat in his hand.
Ned nodded toward the things on the floor.
“Those; the—the togs, you know.”
“Why, what’s the matter with them? Ain’t they—ain’t they good enough?”
“To be quite frank, old man, they are not,” said Ned decisively. Cal studied a moment, his glance wandering from his roommate to the apparel.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, “but they’re all I’ve got, Ned.”
“Well, I suppose you could blow yourself to another suit, Cal, couldn’t you? And a sweater and cap and a few ties that don’t look as though they were made for a circus clown, and—”
But Cal shook his head decidedly.
“I couldn’t, honest, Ned. You see, I—I ain’t got much money.”
“That straight? Folks hit by the panic, were they?”