“Well, there is a difference, just the same. The money comes through the Secretary,--a sort of reward offered, and no questions asked. Anyhow, there’s something about money--something--Oh, you know what it is as well as I do! As soon as money belongs to you, it’s just as good as anybody’s.” “Rather better, I should say.” “Well, clothes aren’t.” “Since you press me,” said Haydock, fishing among a heap of crumpled linen, “I feel obliged to possess myself of this extremely pretty necktie.” He smoothed a brilliant strip of crimson silk over his knee. “Go on, Haystack,--what shall I do with them?” “How many times does a simple statement have to be repeated to you before it penetrates?” Haydock rapidly began to bring a rough kind of order into the waste of shirts, neckties, odd gloves, and suits of clothes. “Give them to Crœsus? That’s out of the question, me boy!” Haydock worked hard a few moments in silence. Then he stood up, hot and dishevelled, but amiable, as he always was, and said, laughing:-- “That light grey suit, these shirts, those neckties, and this hat, in fact the best of this out-fit, is going this afternoon to Barrows, with a note from you. They will subsequently be presented to ‘It, Croœsus, Esquire.’” It amused Wolcott every now and then to have Haydock “boss” him. The clothes went, of course. Two days later they returned. That is to say, the best of them did,--the grey suit, the coloured shirt, the straw hat, and one of the quieter neckties. Ernest McGaw, unspeakably jaunty, almost handsome, was inside of them.