"Shut up!" barks Alex, swingin' around on me. "This here is far from a laughin' matter. It's pretty serious business!" He turns to Wilkinson and shakes him by the shoulder. "Young man," he snaps, "is that the kind of stuff you were goin' to put on our boys which fought for you in France?"
Wilkinson is lookin' at the coats like they fascinated him.
"Why—why this is terrible!" he stammers, fin'ly. "They told me—why—Good Heavens, you don't think I knew these things were made up like this, do you?"
Alex studies him for a minute.
"No," he says, "I don't! You don't look like you'd do that, anyways. What's the name of your firm?"
"Gerhardt and Schmidt," says Wilkinson. "I know it sounds German, but both members of the firm have been naturalized and—"
"Never mind that," says Alex. "Even if it wasn't no worse than a scheme to clean up on a government contract, I think the Secret Service will be interested in seein' them coats!"
The lovely Wilkinson sits right down on the curb and buries his face in his hands.
"Good night!" he moans. "I'm done for now. I thought this was going to be a big thing for me and—"
Alex slaps him on the back.