"Twenty for this—twenty-two for that. You remember I said twenty-two."
"Let me see the stuff," said Stover, as though he had been the mainstay of custom tailors all his life.
Now the crowd was a New York one, a little better groomed than their companions, affecting the same predilections for indiscreet vests and modish styles that would make them appreciative of the supremacy of green in the haberdashery arts.
"This is rather good style," he said, with a glance at Troutman's genteel trousers. "What sort of goods do you call it?"
"Imported Scotch cheviot," said the salesman in a confidential whisper.
Stover looked again at Troutman, who tried discreetly, without being seen by the unsuspecting Yankee, to convey to him in a look the fact that it was a crime to acquire the goods at such a price.
Thus tipped off, Dink bought a roll that had in it a distinct reminiscent tinge of green, and saw it carried to the house, for fear the salesman should suddenly repent of the sacrifice.
At half past eight that night, as he and Tough McCarthy were painfully excavating a bit of Greek prose for the morrow, McNab came rushing in.
"Get out, Dopey, we're boning," said McCarthy, reaching for a tennis racket.