"
"Not they. Let me look at your boots."
Dick held up a shabby foot, and Paddy sniffed in disdain. Two of the
Fowley's had worn the boots in turn, and they were now falling apart
from stress of wear and weather.
"They're no good for the road, me boy. We'll see." And soon a supper
of herrings and bread and butter and tea smoked invitingly on the
table, and when this had been disposed of Paddy went out, locking the
door.
In a surprisingly short time he came back with a stout pair of boots
and some warm stockings, and a half-worn cloth overcoat and cap.
"Shure, and ye won't mind their coming from the second-hand shop with
the three yallow balls put up for ornyment. Me uncle lives there and
he's very obligin'."
Dick flushed with a mixture of gratitude and shrinking. All his
experiences at the Fowley's had not made him _like_ to wear other
people's clothes. But the boots were such a good fit. And the jacket
would keep him so warm and be such a grand bed quilt if he and Pat had
to sleep out.
But how could he take so much from Paddy? The Irishman's quick eyes
saw and understood, and he said easily, "You can pay me back when
you're Lord Mayor of Ironboro', with a gold chain round your neck and
Pat with a leather collar and a brass plate to tell his name and
nation.
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