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"It's the free City College, pop." "You got a better education now than nine boys out of ten. If you ain't man enough to want to get out after four years of high school and hustle for a living, you got to be shown the way out. I started when I was in short pants, and you're no better than your father. Your mother sold notions and axle-grease in an up-State general store up to the day she married.
Allen's Kitty said she was. So he won't need the pepper-and-salts." "But what do you want with a pair of PANTS?" Aunt Nettie put in. Missy wished Aunt Nettie had been invited out to supper; Aunt Nettie was relentlessly inquisitive. She knew she must give some kind of answer. "Oh, just for some fancy-work," she said.
This, together with his hanging his coat on the floor on one side of a chair, and his vest on the floor on the other side, and piling his pants on the floor just in front of the same chair, and then comtemplating the general result with superstitious awe, and finally pronouncing it "too many for him" and going to bed with his boots on, led us to fear that something he had eaten had not agreed with him.
So pa said: "You are the boss," and he looked so pitiful that I almost cried. When the near-sighted claim agent came to pa, I told him that pa's last words were to beg to be shot, and the man looked at pa's pants, and then at his face, and said: "What hit him? That's the worst case I ever saw in a railroad wreck."
Robbins, "is the new style of bicycle attire for the feminine sex. Shocking as it may appear to you, it is much more ample than the costume which I found to be popular among the female bicyclists of France during my visit to that country last summer." "But you don't mean to tell me," said I, "that women make a practice of riding up and down Clarendon Avenue in pants!" "Certainly, I do," said Mr.
'Wear pants that 'll say to th' wurruld that Bill McKinley's legs are fair legs; he says, 'that they may bow at th' knees, but they niver bow to th' opprissor, he says; 'that niver did they wrap thimsilves in bags that bore th' curse iv monno-poly an' greed, he says. 'An' where can I get thim? says th' major, 'Fr'm me, says th' frind iv labor, pullin' out a tape.
MISSING Since Thursday, November 14 John F. McCormack; when last seen he was on board the steam-tug Yankee, at the foot of Charlton street; age twenty-four years, eyes and hair dark brown, height five feet four inches, heavy eyebrows. He was dressed in a brown sack coat and brown vest, black pants, flat-crowned black hat.
It was hardly necessary to warn him that his pants might show above the edge of his socks; as an artist he had already decided upon Robertian pants. I bought them, and other things, in London for him. Even if I had not cut out all trace of the maker's name, he would instinctively have done it. As an Australian and an artist, he could not have an East London address on his underclothes.
One day it was announced that the quartermaster sergeant had received a quantity of clothing, and the men were ordered to go and draw coats, pants, hats, shoes, overcoats, and underclothing, as winter was coming on, and the regiment was liable to move at any time.
It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair of pants, as nicely as a tailor. Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh.
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