"These are my Sunday clothes," he said. "You're pow'ful big fur your
years, an' they'll come purty nigh fittin' you. Leastways, they'll fit
well enough fur sech times ez these. Now you wear 'em, ef you put any
value on your life."
Harry hesitated. He wished to go as a scout, and not as a spy. Clothes
could not change a man, but they could change his standing. Yet the
words of Perkins were obviously true. But he would not go back.
He must do his task.
"I'll take your clothes on one condition, Mr. Perkins," he said, "you
must let me pay for them."
"Will it make you feel better to do so?"
"A great deal better."
"All right, then."
Harry took from his saddle bags the purse which he had removed from his
coat pocket when he undressed, and handed a ten dollar gold piece to the
charcoal burner.
"What is it?" asked the charcoal burner.
"A gold eagle, ten dollars."
"I've heard of 'em, but it's the first I've ever seed. I'm bound to say
I regard that shinin' coin with a pow'ful sight o' respeck. But if I
take it I'm makin' three dollars. Them clothes o' mine jest cost seven
dollars an' I've wore 'em four times."
"Count the three dollars in for shelter and gratitude and remember,
you've made your promise.
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