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"Nothin', Geoff, only it wants burnin'," sighed Spike. "An' then--them
boots--oh, gee!"
"Are they so bad as that?"
"Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N'
York. Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn't be seen dead in 'em; look at th'
patches. Gee whizz! Where did His Whiskers dig 'em up from?"
"I fancy they were his own--once," answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his
bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.
"Well, I'll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain't such a phoney pair
in Manhattan Village."
"They're not exactly things of beauty, I'll admit," sighed Mr.
Ravenslee, "but still--"
"They're rotten, Geoff! They're all to the garbage can! They are the
cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!"
"Hum! You're inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!"
"Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan'cher t' meet th' push, an' I don't want 'em
to think I'm floatin' around with a down-an'-out from Battyville! You
must have some real shoes, Geoff."
"Enough--it shall be done!" nodded Mr.


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