Skinner's Dress Suit

"'Rutherford' – 'Hastings-on-the-Hudson' – swagger name," commented the clerk.

Skinner smiled at the clerk's comment. If it impressed this dapper, matter-of-fact, know-everybody man-of-affairs that way, how much more would it appeal to Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson's social nose. Veritably, it augured well for his scheme.

But he only said, "It reads a devilish sight better than plain Skinner, does n't it?"

"Well," said the clerk, trying to be consoling and diplomatic and failing in both, "you must n't always judge a man by his name."

After breakfast next morning Skinner and Honey remained in their rooms, waiting for the message that was to come from the Wilkinsons, for Skinner had reckoned that any friend of the Colbys would receive prompt attention.

"She'll call you up, Honey, and ask us to dine to-night. There, there, don't ask any questions. I've figured it all out. But we're engaged until Saturday."

"Engaged every night? Why, Dearie, this is only Wednesday. You had n't told me anything about it."

"Quite right," said Skinner, "I had not."

"What are we going to do?"

"I have no plans. I suppose we'll sit in our rooms or go to the theater."

"Well," said Honey, "it beats me."

On reading the morning paper, Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson said to her husband, "They're here – the Skinners – Jennie Colby's friends, you know. We must have them to dinner."

"When?" said Wilkinson, looking up from his paper.

"I dare say they'll be here but a short time. Better make it to-night."

"You're the doctor," said Wilkinson, resuming his paper.

"We'll send out a hurry call for the Armitages and the Bairds and the Wendells," said Mrs. Wilkinson, mentally running over her list of the most select of St. Paul's inner circle. "We'll show these people that we're not barbarians out here."

"Can you corral all those folks for to-night? Is n't it rather sudden, my dear?"

"I've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate them. I 'll call up the Skinners right away."

Honey answered the 'phone. Of course they'd be delighted to dine at the Wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to Saturday. A pause. Hold Saturday for them? She should say they would.

There was another pause. Then Honey clapped her hand over the receiver and turned to Skinner.

"Can we take a spin with them this afternoon, Dearie?"

"You bet. We've nothing else to do."

"You fraud," said Honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said you had engagements."

"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I think."

According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's stubbornness.

As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing.

"Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?"

"What Skinner?"

"William Manning Skinner."

"Never heard of him."

"He's of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., – your old friends."

Jackson pricked up his ears.

"What's he doing here? Does it say?"

"No."

"I know," said Jackson shrewdly. "He's out here after me." He chuckled. "They've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since I quit 'em. Even the partners came out, one at a time. That shows what they think of my trade."

"Skinner's got his wife with him."

"I don't blame him. It's a devilish mean business going on the road without some one to look after you." Jackson paused. "But he can't disguise his fine Italian hand that way. I know those fellows."

"She's some swell," said Mrs. Jackson. "Daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson."

"That don't mean anything. The way they write it makes it look aristocratic. Rutherford! – he might have been a butcher! And Hastings-on-the-Hudson! Well, they have butchers there as well as Astors!"

"Mebbe you're right."

"I'll bet you a new dress Skinner'll be after me to-day," said Jackson, folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "Trust your Uncle Dudley here – I know."

The very first words that greeted Jackson that night when he reached home were, "I get the dress, don't I?"

"How do you know?"

"Skinner didn't get after you to-day. Look!"

Mrs. Jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'A belated honeymoon – that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said Mr. William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., of New York, to a reporter this afternoon. The Skinners had just returned from a spin over beyond Minneapolis with the J. Matthews Wilkinsons – "

"The devil you say!" said Jackson, reaching over and taking the paper. "Aw!" He chucked the paper aside. "That don't establish their social status any more than living in Hastings-on-the-Hudson or being a Rutherford. It don't amount to anything. It's just business. Fellows like Wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him in their car or to the club. In that way they save their business faces without sacrificing their social faces. I know," he growled.

"But how did he get in with the Wilkinsons? They have n't any business."

"Wilkinson is in all sorts of things that nobody knows of but himself." He glanced over the sub-caption. "Skinner sees no difference socially between the St. Paul and the New York people. Puts St. Paul first," he observed, "thanks for that." He read further. "'But the Western people are more frankly hospitable'!"

"Moonshine! Moonshine!" he commented. "Hospitality ain't a matter of location. You'll find generous people and devilish mean people, no matter where you go. That's soft soap. It reads well – but – I know."

"It don't look as if he'd have much time for you, Willard."