Bland took the clothes and went in, mumbling a fear that he would do
himself mortal injury if he took a bath right after a meal.

"If you die, you'll die clean, anyway," Johnny told him grimly. So
Bland took a bath and emerged looking almost respectable.

Johnny had brought his second-best shoes out, and Bland put them on,
pursing his loose lips because the shoes were a size too small. But
Johnny had thrown Bland's shoes out of the window, so Bland had to bear
the pinching.

Johnny sat on the edge of the dresser smoking and fanning the smoke
away from his round, meditative eyes while he looked Bland over. Bland
caught the look, and in spite of the shoes he grinned amiably.

"I take it back, bo, what I said about gratitude. You got it, after
all."

"Huh!" Johnny grunted. "Gratitude, huh?"

"I knowed you wouldn't throw down a friend, old top. I was in the
dumps. A feller'll talk most any way when he's feeling the after
effects, and is hungry and broke. Now I'm my own man again. What
next? Name it, bo--I'm game."

"Next," said Johnny, "is bed, I guess. You're clean, now--you can
sleep here."

Bland showed that he could feel the sentiment called compunction.