“Aside from that they’re all right, though?” asked Joe hopefully.
“Perhaps, although gentlemen aren’t wearing pockets put on at an angle or cuffs on the sleeves.”
“And Peter swore that this suit was right as rain!” sighed Joe. “Ain’t he the swine? How about my other one?”
“Well, it’s better cut and hasn’t so many queer folderols,” answered Myron, “but it looks a good deal like a grain-sack when you get it on, old man.”
“What do you know about that!” Joe shook his head dismally, but Myron caught the irrepressible twinkle in his room-mate’s eyes. “Guess I’ll have to dig down in the old sock and buy me a new outfit,” he continued. “I suppose those tony-looking duds you wear were made to order, eh? Think your tailor could make me a suit if I wrote and told him what size collar I wear?”
“I’m afraid not, but I saw a tailor shop in the village here today that looked pretty good. Why not try there?”
“Blamed if I don’t, kid—Foster! I don’t suppose you’d want to go along with me and see that I get what’s right? I’d hate to find I had too many buttons on my vest—I mean waistcoat—when the things were done!”
“I don’t mind,” answered Myron after an imperceptible moment of hesitation, “although you really won’t need me if the chap knows his business. No first-class tailor will turn you out anything that isn’t correct.”
“Yeah, but—well, I’d feel easier in my mind if I had you along. Maybe tomorrow, eh? Somehow these duds I’ve got on don’t make such a hit with me as they did! Coming over to the gym? It’s mighty near time for practice.”
“In a minute,” answered Myron carelessly. “You run along.” Then he reflected that if he was to go with Joe to the tailor’s the next day he might just as well start in now and get used to being seen with him. “Guess I’m ready, though,” he corrected. “Come on.”