Craig looked round as pleased as a Hottentot with a string of
colored glass beads. "Why, I've got a private sitting-room AND a
private bath! I never was so well-off before in my life. I tell
you, Grant, I'm not surprised any more that you Easterners get
effete and worthless. I begin to like this lolling in luxury, and
I keep the bell-boys on the jump. Won't you have something to
drink?"

Arkwright pointed his slim cane at the rent in the shirt. "What
are you going to do with that?" said he.

"This? Oh!"--Josh thrust his thick backwoods-man's hand in the
tear--"Very simple. A safety-pin or so from the lining of the
vest--excuse me, waistcoat--into the edge of the bosom."

"Splendid!" ejaculated Arkwright. "Superb!"

Craig, with no scent for sarcasm so delicate, pushed on with
enthusiasm: "The safety-pin's the mainstay of bachelor life," said
he rhetorically. "It's his badge of freedom. Why, I can even
repair socks with it!"

"Throw that shirt away," said Arkwright, with a contemptuous
switch of his cane. "Put on another. You're not dressing for a
shindy in a shack."

"But it's the only one of my half-dozen that has a bang-up bosom."

"Bang-up? That sheet of mottled mica?"