Eventually he arrived at the department appropriate to his age and the almost universal ambition of the civilized male, to wit, clothing. Deeply, judiciously, did he meditate and weigh the advantages as between 745 J 460 ("Something new--different--economical--efficient. An all-wool suit embodying all the features that make for clothes satisfaction. This announcement is of tremendous importance"--as one might well have inferred from the student's rapt expression) and 776 J 017 ("A double-breasted, snappy, yet semi-conservative effect in dark-green worsted, a special social value"), leaning to the latter because of a purely literary response to that subtle and deft appeal of the attributive "social." The devotee of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck was an innately social person, though as yet his gregarious proclivities lay undeveloped and unsuspected by himself. Also he was of a literary tendency; but of this he was already self-conscious. He passed on to ulsters and raincoats, divagated into the colorful realm of neckwear, debated scarf-pins and cuff-links, visualized patterned shirtings, and emerged to dream of composite sartorial grandeurs which, duly synthesized into a long list of hopeful entries, were duly filed away within the pages of 3 T 9901, the pocket ledger. Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. He looked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They were paired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being a grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first. "You the main guy here?" The agent nodded. "Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. "That'll be near enough," he said quietly. "Oh, we ain't on that lay," put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse. "You needn't to be scared of us." "I'm not," agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident. "What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town. "The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new." "I got ya," said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way." "I would think so." "You're a hell of a guy, you are," whined the boy. "'On yer way' from you an' not so much as 'Are you hungry?' What about a little hand-out?" "Nothing doing." "Tightwad! How'd you like--" "If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket." "I guess you're a wise one," put in the man, grinning appreciatively. "We got grub enough. Panhandlin's a habit with the kid; don't come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin' a touch."