He only grins kind of foolish, sticks his chin out, and saws his neck against his high collar, like a cow usin' a scratchin' post.
"Blamed if I didn't take you for Henry Dixey, first shot," says I, walkin' around and gettin' a new angle. "Gee! but that's a swell outfit!"
"Think so?" says he. "Will it make 'em sit up?"
"Will it!" says I. "Why, you'll have 'em on their toes."
I didn't know how far I could go on that line without givin' him a grouch; but he seems to like it, so I tears off some more of the same.
"Swifty," says I, "you've got a bunch of tiger lilies lookin' like a faded tea rose. You've got a get-up there that would win out at a Cakewalk, and if you'll take it over to Third-ave. Sunday afternoon you'll be the best bet on the board."
"Honest?" says he, grinnin' way back to his ears. "I was after somethin' a little fancy, I'll own up."
"Well, you got it," says I. "Where'd you have it built?"
"Over the bridge," says he.
Say, it's a wonder some of them South Brooklyn cloth carpenters don't get the blind staggers, turnin' out clothes like that; ain't it?