"Well, I say, bo," chaffed the tramp, shifting from fright to high
spirit with the hysteria of weak natures. "I'm sure glad to see one of
the good old sort. I didn't know what I was dropping in on when I fell
down that hill. But it's all right, hey? I'm on the road. My name is
Boston Fat, and my monacker is a bean-pot."

The brown eyes moved slowly from the grinning face to the garments
heaped in the man's arms. They were cold and critical eyes and there was
no humor in them.

"I do not do business during my lunch-hours, my man. I do not desire to
change tailors just yet and I do not buy stolen property."

His chilliness did not dampen the other's good nature.

"Oh, that's all right, old top. I'm no thief. These clothes were hung
on a fence-post just above here on the road. I reckon they were only
waiting for first-comer."

He dropped the shoes, cocked the hat on his head, and began to fumble
the garments. The placard dropped out of the folds of the coat and the
man at the fire craned his neck and read aloud: "Help Yourself."

"Oh, that's what the paper says, hey? I never learned to read any of the
modern languages," confided Boston Fat. "I was too much taken up with
the dead ones at Harvard. Well, comrade, now you can see for yourself
that I didn't steal this mess of moth-food. There was the sign right on
it saying, 'Help Yourself.' It was there, even if I couldn't read it.
Instinck told me them clothes was for me. I took 'em and came in here."