“This,” said the proprietor, tranquilly, burrowing his way to where Archie stood and exhibiting a saffron-coloured outrage, which appeared to be a poor relation of the flannel family, “would put you back fifty dollars. And cheap!”
“Fifty dollars!”
“Sixty, I said. I don’t speak always distinct.”
Archie regarded the distressing garment with a shuddering horror. A young man with an educated taste in clothes, it got right in among his nerve centres.
“But, honestly, old soul, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but that isn’t a suit, it’s just a regrettable incident!”
The proprietor turned to the door in a listening attitude.
“I believe I hear that feller coming back,” he said.
Archie gulped.
“How about trying it on?” he said. “I’m not sure, after all, it isn’t fairly ripe.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said the proprietor, cordially. “You try it on. You can’t judge a suit, not a real nice suit like this, by looking at it. You want to put it on. There!” He led the way to a dusty mirror at the back of the shop. “Isn’t that a bargain at seventy dollars?...Why, say, your mother would be proud if she could see her boy now!”