Skinner's Dress Suit

When he reached his house, he ran up the steps with a radiant face. Honey was waiting for him at the door, her lithe little figure and mass of chestnut hair, done up on top of her head, silhouetted against the light in the hall. She kissed him, and in her eagerness literally dragged him into the hall and shut the door.

"Dearie, you've done it! I know by your face you've done it!"

"Eh-huh!"

"Now, don't tell me how much till I show you something!"

She drew him into the dining-room and pointed to the table where a wonderful dinner was waiting. "Look, Dearie, oysters to begin with, and later – beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak! And, look – those flowers! Just to celebrate the occasion! I was so sure you'd get it! And, now, Dearie, tell me – how much did they appreciate you?"

Skinner was swept off his feet by her enthusiasm. He threw caution to the winds – that is, after he'd made a lightning calculation. It would n't cost any more, so why be a "piker"?

"Ten dollars," he said with affected quiet.

Honey came over to Dearie, flung her arms around his neck, put her head on his shoulder, and looking up into his face, with eyes brimming with happiness, sighed, "Dearie, I'm so happy! So happy for you!"

And Skinner felt that the lie was justified. He put his hand up and pressed her glossy head close to his breast and looking over her shoulder winked solemnly at the wall!

"And now, Dearie," said Honey, when they were seated at the table, "tell me! You actually bearded that old pig in his pen – my hero?"

"Eh-huh!"

"You told him you wanted a raise?"

"Eh-huh!"

"And what did he say?"

"First, he said he'd see Perkins."

"And he saw Perkins, and what then?"

Skinner threw his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders. If he had to lie, he'd use as few words as possible doing it.

"Was that all?"

"Eh-huh!"

"It was a 'cinch,' just as you said, was n't it, Dearie?"

Skinner imperceptibly winced at the word.

"Eh-huh!"

"I knew you'd only have to hint at it, Dearie!"

"If I 'd hung out, I might have got ten dollars more," said Skinner loftily.

Honey was silent for a long time.

"Well," said Skinner presently, "what's going on in that little bean of yours?"

"I was just figuring, Dearie. Let's see – ten dollars a week – how much is that a year?"

"Five hundred and twenty dollars."

"Five hundred and twenty dollars a year – that'd be more than a thousand dollars in two years!"

"Yes," Skinner affirmed.

"And in four years? Think of it – over two thousand dollars?"

"Better not count your chickens, Honey, – I'm superstitious, you know."

Skinner began to see his ten-dollar raise growing to gigantic proportions. He had visions of himself at the end of four years hustling to "make good" "over two thousand dollars." For the first time he questioned the wisdom of promoting himself. But he could n't back out now. He almost damned Honey's thrift. He would be piling up a debt which threatened to become an avalanche and swamp him, and for which he would get no equivalent but temporarily increased adulation. How could he nip this awful thing in the bud? He did n't see any way out of it unless it were to throw up his job and cut short this accumulating horror. But at least he had a year of grace – two years, four years, for that matter – before he would have to render an accounting, and who could tell what four years might bring forth? Surely, in that time he'd be able to get out of it somehow.

However, he had cast the die, and no matter what came of it he would n't back out. If he did, Honey would never believe in him again. His little kingdom would crumble. So he grinned. "I think I'll have a demi-tasse, just to celebrate."

So Honey brought in the demi-tasse.

Then Honey took her seat again, and resting her elbows on the table, placed her chin in the cup of her hands and looked at Skinner so long that he flushed. Had her intuition searched out his guilt, he wondered.

"And now, I've got a surprise for you, Dearie," she said, after a little.

After what Skinner had gone through, nothing could surprise him, he thought. "Shoot!" said he.

"You thought I got you to get that raise just to build up our bank account – did n't you?"

"Sure thing!" said Skinner apprehensively, "Why?"

"You old goosie! I only got you to think that so you'd go after it! That is n't what I wanted it for – at all!"

Skinner's mouth suddenly went dry.

"We've been cheap people long enough, Dearie," Honey began. "We've never dressed like other people, we've never traveled like other people. If we went on a trip, it was always at excursion rates. We've always put up at cheap hotels, we've always bargained for the lowest rate, and we've always eaten in cheap restaurants. Have n't we, Dearie?"

"Yes," said Skinner. "But what has that got to do with it."

"As a result, we've always met cheap people."

"You mean poor people?" said Skinner quickly.

"Goodness, no, Dearie, – I mean cheap people, – people with cheap minds, cheap morals, cheap motives, cheap manners, and worst of all, – cheap speech! I'm tired of cheap people!"

"What are you going to do about it?" said Skinner, his apprehension growing.

"We're not going to put one cent of this new money in the bank! That's what I 'm going to do about it! Instead of waiting a year for that five hundred and twenty dollars to accumulate, we're going to begin now. We'll never be any younger. We're going to draw on our first year's prosperity!"

"What the deuce are you talking about?" said Skinner, staring at Honey, wild-eyed. "What do you mean?"

She clapped her hands. "Now, don't argue! I've planned it all out! We're going to have a good time – good clothes! We 're going to begin on you, you old dear! You're going to have a dress suit!"

"Dress suit?" Skinner echoed. "Why dress suit? Why dress suit now at this particular stage of the game? Why dress suit at all?"

"Why? For the reception at the First Presbyterian, of course. I 'm tired of having you a sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition! You old dear, you don't think I 'm going to let you miss that affair just for the sake of a dress suit, now that we've got a whole year's raise to spend – do you?"

"How much does a dress suit cost?" Skinner murmured, almost inarticulately.

"Only ninety dollars!"

Skinner reached for his demi-tasse and gulped it down hot. "I see," he said. Then, after a pause, "Couldn't we hire one? It's only for one occasion."

"My Dearie in a hired dress suit? I guess not!"

Skinner pondered a moment, like a cat on a fence with a dog on either side. "Could n't we buy it on the installment plan?"

"We might buy a cheap suit on the installment plan. But remember, Dearie, we're not going to be cheap people any more!"

"One can see that with half an eye," said Skinner.

"Now, Dearie, don't be sarcastic."

"I think I 'll have another demi-tasse," said Skinner, playing for time, and held out his cup.

"It'll keep you awake, Dearie."

"If I don't sleep, it won't be the coffee that keeps me awake," said Skinner enigmatically; so Honey brought in the second demi-tasse.

When dinner was over, the Skinners spent the rest of the evening in front of the open fire. Honey put her arms about Dearie and smiled into the flames. Skinner looked at her tenderly for a few moments, pressed her soft, glossy hair with his lips, and began to realize that he 'd have to do some high financing!

That night, as Skinner lay staring at the ceiling and listening to Honey's gentle and happy breathing, he reflected on the beginnings of a life of crime. Ninety dollars right off the bat! Gee whiz! He had not included any such thing in his calculations when he had hit upon his brilliant scheme of self-promotion. Great Scott! – what possibilities lurked in the background of the deception he'd practiced on Honey! He 'd heard of the chickens of sin coming home to roost, but he'd never imagined that they began to do it so early in the game. He no longer felt guilty that he had deceived Honey, for had n't her confession that she had deceived him about putting that money in the bank made them co-sinners? And one does n't feel so sinful when sinning against another sinner!

Ninety dollars! Gee whiz! But, after all, ninety dollars was n't such an awful lot of money – and he'd see to it that ninety dollars was the limit!

CHAPTER III

SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT

Honey went to the city with Skinner the next day, and during the lunch-hour a high-class tailor in the financial district measured Skinner for his dress suit. Honey had sensed from Dearie's protest the night of the "raise" that it would be hard to pry him loose from any more cash than the first ninety dollars, so she did n't try to – with words. She would let him convince himself. So, when the wonderful outfit arrived a few days later, and Skinner put it on, she pretended to admire the whole effect unqualifiedly.

"Beautiful!" she cried; "perfectly beautiful!"

But she chuckled to herself as she noted the look of perplexity that gradually came into Skinner's eyes as he regarded himself in the mirror.

"These clothes are very handsome," he said presently, "and they're a perfect fit – but the general effect does n't seem right."

Honey remained discreetly silent.

Presently Skinner turned to her with a suggestion of trouble in his eyes. "Say, Honey, what do dress shirts cost?"

"I don't know exactly. Four dollars, perhaps."

"Four dollars!" There was a suggestion of a snarl in Skinner's tone, the first she'd ever heard. "Four dollars! – the one I've got on only cost ninety cents."

"But that is n't a dress shirt, Dearie."

"No, you bet it is n't! But it's good enough for me!" Then with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, "I suppose a certain kind of collar and tie are necessary for a dress shirt?"

"A dollar would cover that."

"How many collars?" he almost shouted.

"One."

Another pause; then, "I've got to have studs?"

Honey nodded.

Another pause. "And, holy smoke, cuff-buttons? Say, where do we get off?"

"They 're not expensive, Dearie."

"But have you any idea how much?" he insisted.

"Four dollars ought to cover that."

"By gosh! Well, I guess that's all," he said quietly. Just then he glanced down at his shoes. "It is n't necessary to have patent leathers, too?" he appealed.

"It's customary, Dearie, but not absolutely necessary."

"People don't see your feet in a reception like that," he urged.

Honey smiled. "They might without difficulty, Dearie, if you chanced to walk across the floor in some vacant space. Remember, you're not in the subway where everybody stands on them and hides them."

"Don't be funny," said Skinner. "Mine are only in proportion. How much? That's the question, while we're at it – how much?"

"You know the price of men's shoes better than I do, Dearie."

"I saw some patent leathers on Cortlandt Street at three dollars and a half."

"Those were n't patent leathers – only pasteboard. They'd fall to pieces if the night happened to be moist. And you'd reach the party barefooted. Think of it, Dearie, going in with a dress suit on and bare feet!"

Her giggle irritated Skinner.

"It may be very funny to you but – how much? That's the question!"

"Not more than six dollars for the best."

"I see," said Skinner, making an effort to be calm. "Silk hosiery?"

"A dollar will cover socks and garters both."

"Garters?" Skinner snapped. "Garters are a luxury. Besides, I never had any success with garters. Safety pins for mine."

"My Dearie a safety-pin man – in a dress suit – not much!"

"Thank goodness, I don't have to have a high hat!"

"If there's anything that's really funny," Honey observed, "it's the combination of a fine dress suit and a cheap hat. Six dollars will cover that."

"That's a darned sight more than the hat'll cover if I don't stop spending money! But why a hat, anyway?" he continued; "you don't wear it in the house. That's the only time your dress suit shows. When you're out of doors you wear it under an overcoat." He paused abruptly. "An overcoat! Great Scott! Have I got to have a new overcoat?"

"You seem to think you have, and, honestly, I agree with you. It would never do, Dearie, to be fine at both ends and shabby in the middle."

Skinner grunted. "An overcoat will cost forty dollars! Do you hear? – forty dollars!"

"I did n't say anything about an overcoat, Dearie. It's your own suggestion."

"You did n't say anything about it – oh, no – you only said enough to cinch my suggestion! Forty dollars," he repeated, "and a hat – six dollars more! Well, by thunder, I 'll get a hat! Gee whiz! What have you let me in for, anyway?"

"I let you in for, Dearie?" Honey's baby-blue eyes stared at him. "You let yourself in for it when you got your raise."

Skinner said nothing for a moment, then burst out, "Say, I have n't got to get new underclothing, have I? Now, don't you even admit that I have! Don't you dare admit it! People can't see my underclothes unless I take my coat off and turn up my shirt-sleeves or roll up my trousers as if I were going in wading."

"Of course, you have n't got to get new underclothes, Dearie. But there's a psychology to it. If you don't feel well dressed, you won't look well dressed. You don't want to be a fraud, with a beautiful dress suit and cheap underneath – and my old Dearie's no fraud."

Skinner passed quickly over the remark. "How much?"

"You can get the best for four dollars a garment."

"Gosh!"

For a moment Skinner pondered; then abruptly, "Say I 'll be hanged if I don't buy new underclothes. For the first time in my life, I 'll be well dressed all through – hide, hoofs, and horns! – socks, drawers, undershirt, shoes, trousers, waistcoat, coat, hat, overcoat! Is there anything else?" he shouted.

"Let me think."

"Yes, think hard!" Skinner retorted. "Don't leave a stone unturned to make me the one, great, perfect tailor's model!"

"There are gloves and a monocle chain. You can get them both for three dollars," Honey added sweetly, affecting not to notice Skinner's reproachful irony.

"A monocle chain?" Skinner shouted. "What's that? Something to lead me by? Am I going to be a monkey?"

"Don't be silly, Dearie!"

Skinner laughed with deep disgust. "Why be a 'piker,' Skinner? You got your raise, did n't you? Damn you, you got your raise! Why be a 'piker'?"

"Piker?" Honey exclaimed. "It'll be a regular debauch in clothes!"

"Debauch!" Skinner cried. "It'll be a riot!"

Honey clapped her hands delightedly.

"Is that all? Are you through with me? Are you finished with me absolutely?"

Honey nodded.

"You're not holding anything in reserve to spring on me? If you've got anything to say, say it now while I 'm in my agony – you can't hurt me any more!"

"My love, you're the finished product!"

"Good!" Skinner paused; then with quiet, grim resolution: "Now, we'll begin on you!"

"Me?" Honey cried.

"Yes, you! You don't suppose I 'm going to be the only one in this outfit to be decked out in gay attire? What would they think if they saw a resplendent individual like me and a shabby little wife? It would be as bad as the man that went on his wedding trip alone because he was too darned mean or too darned poor to take his wife along!"

"But me! I'm all right!"

"What have you got?" Skinner insisted grimly. He had borne the gaff – now it was his turn to do some of the punishing, and he enjoyed it. "What have you got?" he repeated.

"The beautiful pink dress I made over."

"Get it," said Skinner.

Already his tone was taking on an unaccustomed authority, and Honey hastened to do as she was bid. She got the pretty, home-made thing and laid it on the table.

"Put it on," Skinner ordered.

Honey got into the dress as quickly as her trembling fingers would permit.

Skinner stood off and inspected her.

"That's a beautiful little dress for the house," he said finally, "but it does n't match this dress suit. Incompatible is n't the word."

"Would n't this humble dress set off your clothes by contrast?" Honey said, affecting meekness, her sense of humor getting the uppermost.

"Yes, but these clothes of mine would also set off that humble dress by contrast, and that I won't have for a minute! You're the beauty spot in this outfit, my dear," Skinner said tenderly, "not I. I 'm not going to do the peacock act. I'm the quiet, dignified one. That's what I affect. It rests with you to keep up the pulchritudinous end of it. That's it! You've got to dress up to this!"

He smiled fondly at the shrinking Honey.

Honey began to tremble. Dearie had no idea of the cost of women's clothes!

"Look here," Skinner went on, resuming the imperative, "I got this dress suit at a first-class tailor's – you go to a first-class dressmaker and get a gown to correspond with it. To correspond with my patent leathers, you get evening shoes at a first-class bootmaker's. To correspond with my overcoat, you get an evening cloak. Piece for piece, you must do just as I do. We'll be a symphony in clothes! Silk stockings, long gloves, silk underwear, and all the rest of it – that's what you're going to have!"

"But silk underwear? No one can see it, Dearie," Honey protested.

"There's a psychology to it, remember. I want you to feel well dressed."

Honey's face went white.

"Have you any idea what these things will cost?"

"No! – and I don't care!" Skinner burst out. "It's all on me! I got the raise, did n't I? You did n't, did you? Very well, I'll take the consequences – and be damned to 'em!"

Then Skinner swung around and shook his finger at Honey.

"And I want you to understand, we're going to ride to that reception – in a cab! For one night in his life Skinner will not be a walk-in-the-slush man!"

CHAPTER IV

SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT BEGINS TO GET IN ITS FINE WORK

Meadeville was a suburb once removed – a kind of second cousin to the big city – the only kind of a suburb that could really be aristocratic. Meadeville was populated considerably by moneyed New Yorkers and the First Presbyterian was the smartest church in town. The men who passed the plate all belonged to the millionaire class.

But no church congregation was ever made up entirely of aristocrats. It needs a generous sprinkling of the poor and the moderately well-to-do to keep up the spiritual average. This was the case with the First Presbyterian. Its gatherings were eminently democratic. It was the only occasion when the "upper ten" felt that they could mix with the other "hundreds" without any letting-down of the bars. The ultra-fashionable rarely attended the church gatherings. But this was a special occasion. A new pastor was to be introduced. So, prompted by curiosity and a desire to make a good impression on the future custodian of their morals, the smart set attended in full force.

Skinner knew every one of the smart set by sight. But the smart set did n't know Skinner, for he was only a clerk, and no clerk ever had individuality enough to stamp himself on the memory of a plutocrat.

There were a large number of clerks present, fellow commuters, and Skinner noticed with some embarrassment that a considerable number of these gentlemen were not in evening dress.

As like attracts like, – on the same principle that laborers in a car foregather with other laborers, – so Skinner began to foregather with the dress-suit contingent. Their clothes attracted his clothes. He felt that he belonged with them. Furthermore, he had a painful consciousness of being conspicuous among the underdressed men. He also wished to escape a certain envy which he sensed in a few of his fellow clerks, because of his dress suit. While this was a novel sensation to Skinner – the walk-in-the-slush, sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition – he did n't like it, for he was a kind-hearted man, always considerate of the feelings of others. And for the moment it threatened to check the pleasure he was beginning to take in his new clothes.

As Skinner aligned himself with the dress-suit contingent, he realized that many of these were clerks who had risen in the world and owned their own machines, while the under-dressed men still belonged to the bicycle club.

Many of the newly rich men were old acquaintances of Skinner's who had passed him, left him behind, as it were, years before. To these, his dress suit was a kind of new introduction. They seemed pleased to see him. They clapped him on the shoulder. It struck his sense of humor that they were like old friends who had preceded him to heaven and were waiting to welcome him to their new sphere.

He thrust his hands into his pockets – as he saw the others do – and strode, not walked or glided pussy-footedly, as became a "cage man." And he began to feel a commiseration for the men who were not in dress suits.

Skinner found himself taking a sudden interest in the social chatter about him. It did not bore him now. Why had he always hated it so, he asked himself? Probably because he had never taken the trouble to understand it – but he was a rank outsider then. He began to wonder if social life were really so potent of good cheer, physical and mental refreshment. He began to realize that he had permitted himself to dislike a great institution because of a few butterflies whose chatter had offended him.

But he now saw that important business men were social butterflies, at times. Surely, they must see something in it. And if these clever and able men saw something in it, then he, Skinner, must have been something of an ass to deny himself these things.

When McLaughlin came up and greeted him cordially, McLaughlin seemed a changed man. His eyes were genial, and even his hair was conciliatory. And social intercourse had done that! "Gee whiz!" said Skinner to himself.

And Honey! Skinner took a brand-new pride in her. She was radiantly happy, radiantly beautiful in a gown designed by a clever dress-builder to exploit every one of her charms. She was blooming like a rose whose bloom had been arrested by the sordid things of life. Honey had been "taken up." She was now the very center of a group of some of the "best" people there. By Jove, McLaughlin's wife had thrust her arm through Honey's and was leading her off to another group. As he watched her, Skinner felt that even sin – when undertaken for another – has its compensations!

"Who is that very distinguished man over there?" said Mrs. J. Smith Crawford, the wife of the senior deacon of the First Presbyterian.

Miss Mayhew adjusted her lorgnette. "What very distinguished man?"

"There's only one," replied Mrs. Crawford. "The man over there who looks like a cross between a poet and an athlete."

"Oh, that's Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. The Skinners are great friends of ours."

As a matter of fact, Miss Mayhew had never taken the trouble to notice the Skinners, but now that Skinner had made an impression on the exclusive Mrs. Crawford, that altered the case.

"I'm glad," said Mrs. Crawford. "Go get him."

Skinner found Mrs. Crawford most engaging. She was neither haughty nor full of the pedantry with which social leaders try to disabuse the mind of the ordinary citizen that the rich must necessarily be dubs. Twenty minutes later, Deacon Crawford came up and Skinner was presented.

"I'm mighty glad to know you, Mr. Skinner," said the deacon. "Some views I heard you expressing just now were quite in accord with my own."

Skinner left the Crawfords presently with his head in the clouds. But he was brought down to earth by some one plucking him by the sleeve.

"Gee, Skinner, where did you get it?" said Allison, who stood there in a sack suit, grinning.

"Like it?" said Skinner, pleased.

"You bet! It's a Jim Lulu!"

"My wife made me get it," said Skinner, winking at Allison.

"Well, I hope you'll continue to recognize us," said Allison – and Skinner again felt the touch of envy, but he did n't like it, for Skinner was no snob.