"If I happened to stand handy by when a Kansas cyclone ripped the
insides out of a clothing-store only the boys' sizes would drop in the
same county with me," grumbled the tramp, working his arms out of the
sleeves.

"The coat was plainly built for a gentleman," stated the man at the
fire. "Therefore it is of no value to you."

Boston Fat surveyed the stranger with a vicious glint in his little
eyes, as a pig might stare at a man who had struck it across the snout.

"Good afternoon, perfesser," he sneered.

"Why 'professor,' my frayed and frowsled Falstaff?"

"There you go with it--showing yourself up out of your own mouth! Words
a yard long--words that would break a decent man's teeth! You're one of
these college dudes out on the road getting stuff to write into a book.
I've heard about your kind. And that kind is getting too thick and
plenty and you're putting slush all over the real profesh. Quit it and
go back to college. Don't use me for your book."

This was reciprocation of derogatory sentiment with a vengeance!

The man at the fire sat back on his haunches. He finished chewing his
mouthful, regarding the tramp with a languid stare that traveled from
crown of his head to tip of his battered shoe.

"The only thing about a book that you would be good for," he said,