“Put these on,” squeaked the Frog. His manner said, “See how good we are to you.” He held out the treasure of the establishment, a night-garment retained for fastidious new-arrivals, newly-bathed. Of course, no one else was supposed to bathe.
Was the garment he held out a slivered shirt? Nay, nay. It was a sort of pajama combination. Hundreds of men had found shelter, taken a luxurious bath, and put them on. They were companions in crime of the towel and the wash-rag. Let us suppose that three hundred and sixty-five men wore them a year. In ten years there would have been about three thousand six hundred and fifty bathed men in them. That did not account for their appearance.
“What makes them so dirty?” I asked.
No answer.
“Can’t I wear my underclothes to bed instead of these?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Sulphur.”
“What do you mean by sulphur?”
“Your clothes are up stairs being fumigated.”