He threw off all restraint. “Old shoes,” he said, “old shoes.” He pointed at them.
“I have walked two hundred miles among the moonshiners. They wear brogans like these.” But his manner plainly said that his organization did not need cranks climbing over the mountains to tell them things.
“Your New York letter did not say you were walking. It said you ‘would arrive.’”
He began to point again. “Frayed trousers! And the lining of your coat in rags!”
“I took the lining of the coat for necessary patches.”
“A blue bandanna round your neck!”
“To protect me from sunburn.”
He rose and hit the table. “And no collar!”
“Oh yes, I have a collar.” I drew it from my hip pocket. It had had a two hundred mile ride, and needed a bath.
“I should like to have it laundered, but I haven’t the money.”