Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed the hope of being useful to him in any other possible manner—“any tips I can give you or anything of that sort, old chap?”—so heartily that the newcomer broached the subject of clothes.
“Nothin’ easier,” was the ready response. “I’ll take you right down to Mertoun. Just one more and we’re off.”
The one more having been disposed of: “What is it you want?” inquired Cressey, when they were settled in the taxi which was waiting at the club door for them.
“Well, what do I want? You tell me.”
“How far do you want to go? Will five hundred be too much?”
“No.”
Cressey lost himself in mental calculations out of which he presently delivered himself to this effect:
“Evening clothes, of course. And a dinner-jacket suit. Two business suits, a light and a dark. You won’t need a morning coat, I expect, for a while. Anyway, we’ve got to save somethin’ out for shirts and boots, haven’t we?”
“I haven’t the money with me” remarked Banneker, his innocent mind on the cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck.
“Now, see here,” said Cressey, good-humoredly, yet with an effect of authority. “This is a game that’s got to be played according to the rules. Why, if you put down spot cash before Mertoun’s eyes he’d faint from surprise, and when he came to, he’d have no respect for you. And a tailor’s respect for you,” continued Cressey, the sage, “shows in your togs.”