“Really, Cliff, the squire for once has done the handsome thing,” remarked the professor, as he critically examined the suit. “This is a fine piece of cloth, and everything is first-class.”
“Yes, sir, and I am very much pleased,” Clifford heartily responded, little dreaming to what strategy he owed his fine feathers.
The next morning he dressed himself with great care for church, feeling an unusual pride in his linen, and a thrill of gratitude as well, for Maria had made him some fine shirts and polished them to the last degree with her own hands.
When he came forth from his room he looked every inch the gentleman, and many an eye rested admiringly upon him as he walked down the aisle with the professor’s family and took his seat in their pew.
Squire Talford, not being a church-going man, was not there to observe the change which new linen and fashionably cut garments had made in his bound boy, and he did not once dream of the practical joke that had been played upon him until the following Tuesday, when his own suit came home.
Accompanying it was a note from the tailor, which read thus:
“Dear Sir: I fear you have made a mistake in the selection of cloth for your suit. I cannot quite understand it, as heretofore you have ordered fine goods; but as your instructions were explicit I have done the best I could and hope you will be satisfied.
“Respectfully yours,
“Abel Black.”
The squire looked perplexed as he read the letter, which, with the bill, had been enclosed in an envelope and slipped under the string which bound the box that contained the suit.