MacLachan's “Home of Fashion” on the corner was long since dark, but Cyrus's pedal fantasia on the panels brought forth the indignant proprietor.
“What have you got for me to go to a fancy party in, Mac?” demanded his disturber.
“Turnverein or Pansy Social Circle?” inquired the practical tailor.
“Neither. A dead swell party.”
“Go as ye are-rr, ye fule!” said the Scot, and slammed the door.
“Perfectly simple,” said Cyrus the Gaunt. “I'll do it.”
He hastened around to Schwartz's to wash his hands and smut his face artistically.