"They're not exactly things of beauty, I'll admit," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "but still—"
"They're rotten, Geoff! They're all to the garbage can! They are the cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!"
"Hum! You're inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!"
"Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan'cher t' meet th' push, an' I don't want 'em to think I'm floatin' around with a down-an'-out from Battyville! You must have some real shoes, Geoff."
"Enough—it shall be done!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.
"Well, tan Oxfords are all to th' grapes just now, Geoff. I don't mean those giddy-lookin' pumps with flossy bows onto 'em, but somethin' sporty, good an' yellow that'll flash an' let folks know you're comin'. And here's Eckstein's!"
With which abrupt remark Spike plunged into a shop, very dark and narrow by reason of a heterogeneous collection of garments, of ribbons and laces, of collars and ties of many shapes and hues, together with a thousand and one other things that displayed themselves from floor to ceiling; amidst which, Mr. Ravenslee observed a stir, a slight confusion, and from a screen of vivid-bosomed shirts a head protruded itself, round as to face and sleek as to hair.
"Greetin's, Ikey!" said Spike, nodding to the head. "How's pork to-day?"
"Aw—vat you vant now, hey?" enquired the head. "Vat's the vord; now—shpit it out!"
"It ain't me, Moses, it's me friend wants a sporty fit-out an' discount for spot cash, see? Show us your half-dollar shirts for a starter—an' sporty ones, mind!"