It will be a sort of patriotic 'poverty party.'
Come at seven, please."
"Dining out, eh? Lucky devil!" said Leslie Branch when he had
learned of his companion's invitation. "And to meet a
philanthropic old lady! Gee! Maybe she'll offer to adopt you. Who
knows?"
"I wish you'd offer to lend me a clean shirt."
"I'll do it," readily agreed the other. "I'll stake you to my last
one. But keep it clean! Have a care for the cuffs--a little
inadvertency with the soup may ruin my prospects for a job. You
understand, don't you, that our next meal after this one may
depend upon this shirt's prosperous appearance?" Branch dove into
his bag and emerged with a stiffly laundered shirt done up in a
Cuban newspaper. He unwrapped the garment and gazed fondly upon
it, murmuring, "'Tis a pretty thing, is it not?" His exertions had
brought on a violent coughing-spell, which left him weak and
gasping; but when he had regained his breath he went on in the
same key: "Again I solemnly warn you that this spotless bosom is
our bulwark against poverty. One stain may cut down my space
rates; editors are an infernally fastidious lot. Fortunately they
want facts about the war in Cuba, and I'm full of 'em: I've fought
in the trenches and heard the song of grape and canister--"
"Grape-fruit and canned goods, you mean," O'Reilly grinned.
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