Skinner's Dress Suit

"He ain't through yet," said Jackson, lighting a stogie. "I'll bet you another dress that to-morrow – "

"Taken!"

Mrs. Jackson turned again to the paper.

"That girl knows how to dress, all right!"

But it was n't Honey's dress that stirred Mrs. Jackson's soul to the depths. These Skinners were hand in glove with the inaccessible Wilkinsons, and – the devil take it – Jackson was no longer a customer of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

Skinner read the evening paper with great satisfaction. The inky seed disseminated through the press was, he felt, bound to take strong root in the fertile consciousness of Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson, and therefrom was sure to react effectively upon the decidedly active consciousness of Jackson himself.

With this end in view, as per plan of campaign for the reclamation of Willard Jackson, Skinner had had himself interviewed on a subject dear and flattering to the Middle West, especially flattering to St. Paul. He had written his "first impressions of St. Paul" on the way out from New York, and had permitted the same to be extracted by the reporters – with great cunning – from his modest and reluctant self. Honey was present – designedly present – while the young newspaper men were quizzing Skinner, dressed in her very latest, which was carefully noted and described in the interview, for decorative purposes.

"We just looked in en passant," Skinner observed to the reporters, using his French to the limit. "It's a kind of belated honeymoon. We've seen Mr. Hill's residence and we ran over and looked at those wonderful flour mills in Minneapolis, your neighbor" – He paused.

A frozen atmosphere seemed suddenly to enshroud the reporters. Their pencils ceased to record.

"Oh, yes, let's get back to St. Paul."

Instantly the temperature rose about a hundred degrees, and the reporters' pencils began to move again.

When the newspaper men were gone, Skinner jotted down: —

And when he read his interview in the evening paper, Skinner made this entry: —

The Skinners devoted the days between Wednesday and Saturday to loafing or sight-seeing, principally the former. They drove over to Minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything that pertained to machinery fascinated Skinner. Then they went out to the Lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. But after a time, this unaccountably useless routine got on Honey's nerves.

"Dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't you think you ought to get after business?"

"Don't worry. Business will get after us pretty soon."

"But time is flying."

"Time is doing just what I want it to do. It takes time for plans to develop. It takes time for seed to grow. I started business getting after us Sunday morning at the First Presbyterian Church in Meadeville. I prepared some of the seed on the way out here. I began sowing the evening we arrived. I fanned the flame with a big puff," – he held up the paper with the interview in it. "Jingo, that's funny. I did n't mean it literally."

"Your metaphors are fearfully mixed, Dearie."

"Does n't matter. They're graphic."

"But they're not clear to me."

"They are to me, which is enough," said Skinner, with a suggestion of finality.

Honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and Skinner's heart instantly smote him.

"Don't worry, Honey. It's all right." He paused. "Now, I'm going to make a prophecy." He pointed impressively at her with his forefinger. "And you mark my words! Things will begin to happen right after the Wilkinson dinner."

"That's Sunday morning."

"Things have happened on Sunday," observed Skinner quietly.

"When do you expect to start for home?"

"I 'm not sure, but I 'm counting strongly on Tuesday morning."

While the Skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same business was developing in another part of the city.

"Do I get another dress?" Mrs. Jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon entered the dining-room Thursday evening.

"You do," he growled. "I'll be hanged if I understand it."

"It's too bad," Mrs. Jackson began.

The curmudgeon held up his finger. "Stop right where you are. I know what you're going to say." He growled out the accustomed formula: "'You'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. I want to go with the people I 'm fit to go with!' In the future, just to save time, cross your fingers and I'll know you mean formula number two."

"But Mr. Skinner," Mrs. Jackson persisted.

The curmudgeon cut her short. "What's Skinner got to do with it?"

"Got to do with it? Why, he's a regular missing link!"

"Missing link?" Jackson looked at her in surprise. "Have you seen him?"

"I don't mean that – I mean connecting link."

"Some difference," Jackson grunted.

"If you hadn't gone and broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc."

"That's enough. It's too late now. I don't want to hear anything more about it."

Mrs. Jackson said nothing. She knew that silence at such a time was her most effective weapon. Jackson waited for her to speak, but as she did not speak he immediately felt sorry that he'd been short with her. She was the only person in the world he really cared for. But he must show no outward sign of weakness, so he repeated, "It's too late now, I tell you!"

But, being a resourceful man, Jackson never considered anything too late. He would never take defeat for granted until he should be in his coffin. As a matter of fact, he had often regretted that he had broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. If it had n't been for that fresh salesman, Briggs, he never would have. And after he had broken with them, his stupid obstinacy had stood in the way of resuming friendly relations, for McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., had always delivered the goods.

CHAPTER X

SKINNER LANDS A CURMUDGEON

With his head full of these reflections but without any definite method to accomplish a rather indefinite purpose, Jackson strolled into the lobby of The Hotel the next morning.

"Who is this Skinner that was interviewed?" he asked the chief clerk, whom he had known for a long time.

Glibly the clerk recounted to Jackson all he knew about their guest, who had suddenly become illustrious through the magic touch of the J. Matthews Wilkinsons.

"Point him out to me," said Jackson. "I always like to look over these Eastern guys that know so much that ain't so about us Middle West people."

"The Skinners don't get down to breakfast before ten," said the clerk.