One morning I saw him actually remove his own shoes and give them to a passing tramp who needed them worse than he.

“That’s nothing, dad’s money will be sufficient to buy me a new pair,” he explained, going back to his tent, in his bare feet, his socks in his hand—­to put on his sneakers while he hastened to the shoe store in Andersonville.

* * * * *

Milton had urged me to be sure to come and see him if I chanced to be in New York.

I now called him on the telephone and was cordially invited to visit him, and that, immediately.

The servants eyed me suspiciously and sent me up by the tradesmen’s elevator.  Milton flew into a fury over it.  His friend was his friend, no matter how he was dressed—­he wanted them to remember that, in the future!

He brought out a bottle of wine, had a fine luncheon set before me.  I went for the food, but pushed the wine aside.  He drank the bottle himself.  I was still, for my part, clinging to shreds of what I had learned at “Perfection City.” ...

He rushed me to his tailor.  I had told him of my first poems’ being accepted.

“Of course, you must be better dressed when you go to see the editor.”

The tailor looked me over, in whimsical astonishment.  He vowed that he could not have a suit ready for me by ten the next morning, as Milton was ordering.

“Then you have a suit here for me about ready.”

“It is ready now.”

“Alter it immediately to fit Mr. Gregory ... we’re about the same height.”

The tailor said that could be done.

For the rest of the day Milton and I peregrinated from one saloon back-room to another ... in each of which the boy seemed to be well known.  He drank liquor while I imbibed soft drinks ... the result was better for him than for me.  I soon had the stomach-ache, while he only seemed a little over-exhilarated.

At his door-step he shoved a ten dollar bill into my hand.  I demurred, but accepted it.

“I’d hand you more,” he apologised, “but the Old Man never lets me have any more than just so much at a time ... says I waste it anyhow ... but I manage to do a lot of charging,” he chuckled.

“Have you a place to stay to-night?”

“Yes ...  I have an uncle who lives uptown.”

* * * * *

When I showed up at my uncle’s, that night, I showed him my new rig-out, and explained to him how I came into possession of it.  But he did not accept my explanation.  Instead, he shook his head in mournful dubiousness ... indicating that he doubted my story, and insinuating that I had not come by my suit honestly; as well as by the new dress suitcase Saunders had presented me with, and the shirts and underclothing.

“God knows where you’ll end up, Johnny.”

After supper Uncle Jim grew restive again, and he came out frankly with the declaration that he did not want me to stay overnight in the house, but to pack on out to Haberford to my father ... or, since I must stay in town to see my editor (again that faint, dubious smile), I might stay the night at a Mills Hotel ... since my rich friend had given me money, too ... besides my aunt was not so very strong and I put a strain on her.