"Not from you," said Butsey White with Roman dignity. "You've got the whole darn house down on you already, and the Coffee-colored Angel will never forgive you."
"Just for that?"
Butsey White disdained an answer. Instead, he scanned Stover's clothes with critical disfavor.
"Say, if I'm going to lead you around by the hand you've got to come down on that color scheme of yours, or it's no go."
Stover, surprised, surveyed himself in the mirror.
"Why, I thought that pretty fine."
"Say, have you got a pair of trousers that's related to a coat?"
Stover dove into the trunk and produced a blue suit that passed the censor, who had in the meanwhile confiscated the razor-tipped patent-leathers and the red-visored cap, saying:
"Now you'll sink into the landscape and won't annoy the cows. Stick on this cap of mine and hoof it; you're due at the Doctor's in half an hour, and I promised old Fuzzy-Wuzzy to show you the lay of the land and give you some pointers."
Outside, Cheyenne Baxter, who was pitching curves to Tough McCarty, stopped them: