Still, you do need the clothes.

You're a perfect disgrace." Craig took away his hand and burst into his noisy, boyish laughter, so reminiscent of things rural and boorish, of the coarse, strong spirits of the happy-go-lucky, irresponsibles that work as field hands and wood-haulers.

"By cracky, Grant, I just got sight of the remnants of that dig I gave you.

It was a beauty, wasn't it ?" Arkwright moved uneasily, fumbled at his collar, tried to smile carelessly.
"I certainly am the luckiest devil," Craig went on.

"Now, what a stroke pushing you over and throttling you was!" And he again laughed loudly.
"I don't follow you," said Grant sourly.
"What a vanity box you are! You can't take a joke.