"Indeed, I beg your pardon," he begged, "but it struck me as a sort
of--I had no idea you fellows were such swells--I knew I was a social
outcast, but I didn't know my being a social outcast was hurting
anyone else. Tell me some more."
"Well, that's all," said Keating, suspiciously. "The fellows asked me
to speak to you about it and to tell you to take a brace. Now, for
instance, we have a sort of mess-table at the hotels and we'd like to
ask you to belong, but--well--you see how it is--we have the officers
to lunch whenever they're on shore, and you're so disreputable"--
Keating scowled at Channing, and concluded, impotently, "Why don't
you get yourself some decent clothes and--and a new hat?"
Channing removed his hat to his knee and stroked it with affectionate
pity.
"It is a shocking bad hat," he said. "Well, go on."
"Oh, it's none of my business," exclaimed Keating, impatiently. "I'm
just telling you what they're saying. Now, there's the Cuban
refugees, for instance. No one knows what they're doing here, or
whether they're real Cubans or Spaniards."
"Well, what of it?"
"Why, the way you go round with them and visit them, it's no wonder
they say you're a spy.
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