“Well, now you bring those along and I’ll wear them. You say they’re warm; that’s what I want, something warm. And—look here, have you got them in any other color?”
“No, they’re always blue, you know.”
“Oh!” Stowell felt that he had displayed unpardonable ignorance. “Yes, of course. Well, you bring a couple of pairs, say, Wednesday, will you?”
“All right,” answered Shult. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” murmured Stowell. The door closed behind his visitor and he went grinning back to his chair.
Half an hour later when “Chick” Reeves did come in, playfully tipping Stowell and the armchair on to the hearth-rug by way of greeting, Stowell told him about the Michigan freshie who was peddling blue woolen mitts, and told it so well that “Chick” sat on the floor and howled with delight.
“And you are going to wear them?” he gurgled.
“Why, I’ll have to,” answered Stowell, ruefully. “I wanted to help the beggar, and he wouldn’t sell them to me unless I wore them.”
“Then I’ll have to have a pair, too.”