Bland's shoes were worn through on the sides, and he had blackened his
ragged socks to hide the holes. Somewhere he had got a blue serge
coat, from which the lining sagged in frayed wrinkles. His pockets
were torn down at the corners; buttons were gone, grease spots and beer
stains patterned the cloth. Under the coat he wore a pink-and-white
silk shirt, much soiled and with the neck frankly open, imitating sport
style because of missing buttons. He looked what he was by nature;
what he was by training,--a really skilful birdman,--did not show at
all.

He begged a smoke from Johnny and slouched along, with an aimless
garrulity talking of his hard luck, now curiously shot with hope.
Which irritated Johnny vaguely, since instinct told him whence that
hope had sprung. Still, sympathy made him kind to Bland just because
Bland was so worthless and so miserable.

At a dingy, fly-infested place called "Red's Quick Lunch" whither
Johnny, mindful of his low finances, piloted him, Bland ordered largely
and complained because his "T bone" was too rare, and afterwards
because it was tough. Johnny dined on "coffee and sinkers" so that he
could afford Bland's steak and "French fried" and hot biscuits and pie
and two cups of coffee. The cat, he told himself grimly, was not
content with a saucer of milk. It was on the top shelf of the pantry,
lapping all the cream off the pan!

Afterwards he took Bland to the hotel where his room was paid for until
the end of the week, led him up there, produced an old suit of clothes
that had not seemed to wear a sufficiently prosperous air for the owner
of an airplane, and suggestively opened the door to the bathroom.