"Oh, you poor old idiots! It's a shame! Say, I'll stake you." "Certainly not," said Pennoyer sternly.
"What are you talking about, Splutter ?" demanded Wrinkles in an angry voice.
"No, that won't go down," said Grief, in a resolute yet wistful tone.
Florinda divested herself of her hat, jacket, and gloves, and put them where she pleased.

"Got coffee, haven't you?
Well, I'm not going to stir a step.

You're a fine lot of birds!" she added bitterly, "You've all pulled me out of a whole lot of scrape--oh, any number of times--and now you're broke, you go acting like a set of dudes." Great Grief had fixed the coffee to boil on the gas stove, but he had to watch it closely, for the rubber tube was short, and a chair was balanced on a trunk, and two bundles of kindling was balanced on the chair, and the gas stove was balanced on the kindling.

Coffee-making was here accounted a feat.
Pennoyer dropped a piece of bread to the floor.

"There! I'll have to go shy one." Wrinkles sat playing serenades on his guitar and staring with a frown at the table, as if he was applying some strange method of clearing it of its litter.
Florinda assaulted Great Grief.