“Spit it out, kiddo—I mean Foster! Let’s know the worst.”
“Well, I suppose they’re good material and well made, Dobbins, but the fact is they—they’re different, if you see what I mean.”
“I don’t. What do you mean, just? Style all wrong by Fifth Avenue standards?”
“By any standard,” replied Myron firmly. “They look ready-made.”
“But, gee, they are ready-made! I never had a suit made to order in my life. Why should I? I’m not hump-backed or—or got one leg longer than the other!”
“Some ready-made clothes don’t look it, though,” explained Myron. “Yours do. Did you get them in Portland?”
“Sure. We’ve got some dandy stores in Portland.”
“Did that suit come from the best one?” asked Myron drily.
“N-no, it didn’t, to tell the hideous truth.” Joe chuckled. “You see, the old man has a friend who runs a store and we’ve both got sort of used to dealing with this guy. He’s a pretty square sort, too; a Canuck. Peter Lafavour’s his name. But I guess maybe Peter doesn’t know so much about style as he makes out to, eh? I always sort of liked these duds, though: they’re sort of—er—snappy, eh?”
Myron smiled. “They’re too snappy, Dobbins. That’s one out with them. Then they don’t fit anywhere. And they look cheap and badly cut.”