Unless he happens to be a Mexican--then he spends it on his hat, too.
So the dream of Whitey's life, the pinnacle of his ambition, the idea of the tip-top of ecstatic happiness that lived in his brain was--Boots.

And now he had them.

And they were beauties; with tops of soft leather with fancy stitching, inlaid with white enameled leather, and high heels, that a fellow could dig into the ground when he was roping a horse.

In short, they were regular boots, that any one might be proud of.

And they had been made to order for Whitey! It would be useless to attempt a description of how Whitey felt about those boots.