"Will he fit me, too?" asked Obed.
"He don't make—breeches!" said Clinton disdainfully.
"A good hit, by Jehoshaphat!" exclaimed Obed, slapping Clinton on the back with such emphasis that he was nearly upset.
"Don't hit quite so hard," said the dude ruefully. "You nearly upset me, don't you know?"
"I know it now. The fact is, friend Clinton, you ought to be shut up in a glass case, and put on exhibition in a dime museum."
"How awfully horrid!" protested Clinton.
"You're more fit for ornament than use."
"You're awfully sarcastic, Mr. Stackpole, don't you know?" said Clinton, edging off cautiously. "I must bid you good-morning, Mr. Vane, as I have to buy a new neck tie. I will go to the tailor's any day."
"What was such a critter made for, anyway?" queried Obed, when Clinton was out of hearing. "He looks for all the world like a tailor's dummy."