Skinner's Dress Suit

"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.

As Skinner and Honey were departing, Lewis touched him on the arm. "We'll drop you and Mrs. Skinner at the house," he said. "We've plenty of room in our car."

The Lewises and the Skinners bade each other a very cordial, if not affectionate, good-night when Lewis's car pulled up at Skinner's door.

"Can you beat it?" said the "cage man" as they closed the door behind them. "Lewis has scarcely noticed me for two years."

"It was the dress suit, Dearie."

"It's earned a dollar and a half already."

"How?" said Honey, surprised.

"Cab fare! Say, I'm going to keep an account of what this dress suit actually cost me and what it brings in," said Skinner.

"And to think of it, Dearie, – it's all because of your getting that raise."

Honey laid her head on Dearie's shoulder, as she always did when she felt sentimental.

"Eh-huh," said Skinner absently.

"I'm so grateful to think you got it – I just couldn't help telling Mrs. McLaughlin – "

"Huh?" Skinner interrupted. "You did n't mention that raise to Mrs. McLaughlin, did you?"

"Why should n't I?"

"But did you?" said Skinner, with apprehension.

"Why, no. I simply told her I was so grateful for the mark of appreciation they'd shown!"

"And what did Mrs. McLaughlin say?"

"She asked me what I meant."

"And what did you say?"