“I want one like the last drummer wore through here,” he continued; “a check suit with braid on all the edges.”
The clerk dropped a bulky volume heavily on the counter. “The Chicago Sartorial Company,” he asserted, “have got some swell checks.” He ran hastily over the pages, each with a sample rectangle of cloth pasted within a printed gold border, and a cabalistic sign beneath. Finally, “How’s that?” he demanded, indicating a bold, mathematical design in pale orange, blue and grey.
A combined whistle rose from the onlookers; comments of mock amazement crowded one upon another. “Jin ... go! He’s got the wrong book—that’s rag carpet. Don’t look at it too long, Gord, it’ll cross your eyes. That ain’t a suit, it’s a game.” A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice upon the counter, “It’s my move and I can jump you.”
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” the clerk protested; “this is the finest article woven, the very toniest.”
Gordon dismissed the sample with a gesture. “I’m a man,” he pronounced, “not a minstrel.” His attention was held by a smaller pattern, in black and white, with an occasional red thread drawn through. “That’s it,” he decided; “that’s it, with braid. What will that damage me?”
The clerk consulted the sign appended to the sample, then raced through a smaller, supplementary volume, where he located the item in question. “That cloth you picked out,” he announced importantly, “is one of the best the Chicago Sartorial Company put out. Cut ample, with sleeves lined in silkaleen and back in A1 mohair, it’ll stand you thirty-eight dollars. Genuine Eytalian thread silk lining will come at four and a half more.”
“She’ll do,” Gordon told him, “with the silk and the braid edge.”
The clerk noted the order; then with a tape measure affixed to a slim, wooden angle, came from behind the counter. “Remove the coat, please.”
Gordon, with a patent self-consciousness, took off his coat, revealing a flimsy white silk shirt striped like a child’s stick of candy in vivid green.
The whistle arose with renewed force; gnarled and blackened fingers gingerly felt the shirt’s texture. “Man dear! The lily of Lebanon. Arrayed like a regular prostitute ... silk shirt tails.”