He turned him about in the light from the window. What are you wearing? he said. Harrogate shuffled and flapped his arms. Aw, he said. Just some old clothes. Did they rig you out in these at the workhouse? Yeah. They lost my clothes what they give me at the hospital. I dont look funny do I? No. You look crazy. He pulled at Harrogate. What is this? Harrogate held his arms aloft. I dont know, he said. Suttree was turning him around. Good God, he said. The shirt was fashioned from an enormous pair of striped drawers, his neck stuck through the ripped seam of the crotch, his arms hanging from the capacious legholes like sticks. What size do you wear? What size what? Anything. Shirt to start with. I take a small. A small. Yeah. Take that damn thing off.
( Cormac McCarthy )
[ Suttree ]
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