“I’m owing some two years. There’s lots of fellows make them wait as long.”
“That ain’t my way,” said Obed. “I pay cash. Don’t they make a fuss?”
“Oh, they send in their bills, but I don’t take any notice of them,” said Clinton languidly.
“Then, young man,” said Obed, “let me advise you to pay your bills, and get back your self-respect. I’d go six months with only a pair of breeches, sooner than cheat a tailor out of a new pair.”
“I never wear breeches,” drawled Clinton, with a shudder. “I don’t know what they are. Mr. Vane, those trousers you have on are very unbecoming. Let me introduce you to my tailor. He’ll fit you out in fashionable style.”
“Thank you. I believe I do need a new pair.”
“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?”