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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?"

"I told her her husband would understand and I wanted him to know just how I felt about it."

"The devil you did," said Skinner.

True to his word, Skinner proceeded to keep a little book marked "Dress-Suit Account." He was probably the only man, he reflected, who had ever done such a thing, and he did it at first more as a joke than anything else. But he found that the "Dress-Suit Account" developed serious as well as humorous possibilities. He first entered carefully, item by item, the cost of the dress suit and its accessories.

To that he added the cost of Honey's outfit:

Skinner noted that everything was on the debit side until the night of the First Presbyterian reception. Then he put down: —

And he did n't neglect to add the relatively unimportant item: —

From that time on, both debit and credit items were put down as they occurred to Skinner.

While Skinner was thus directly concerned with the dress-suit account, that potent affair was rapidly developing ramifications in an unsuspected direction.

"I say, Perk," said McLaughlin to the junior partner, the day after the reception, "I saw Skinner and his wife at the First Presbyterian affair in Meadeville last night, and, by jingo, they were all dressed up to the nines."

"There's nothing startling in that."

"No – but what do you suppose Skinner's wife said to Mrs. Mac?"

Perkins sighed heavily at the bare suggestion. "What the deuce has that got to do with me?"

"Wait till I tell you. She almost wept on Mrs. Mac's neck while she told her how grateful she was – grateful for the way we had shown our appreciation of Skinner!"

Perkins pricked up his ears. "The deuce you say!"

"I thought you'd come to," said McLaughlin.

"What did she mean by that?"

"Don't know. Mrs. Mac asked her what she was driving at – and she said I 'd understand. She wanted me to know how she felt about it – that's all!"

Perkins's only comment was, "Curious!"

"Say, Perk," McLaughlin went on, "do you reckon she was trying to be sarcastic – trying to give us a sly dig for turning Skinner down?"

"He'd never tell her that."

"Then what did she mean?"

Perkins shrugged his shoulders.

McLaughlin knitted his brows. "I don't understand it." He drummed on the table with the paper-knife. "I told you I was afraid of worms," he said after a pause.

"He has n't begun to turn yet."

"How do you know? Hang it! A worm is always turning. There's no telling when he begins. He crawls in curves."

"Oh, rats!" was Perkins's only comment.

"Rats, eh? Skinner asked for a raise, did n't he? He did n't get it, did he? Right on top of it he comes out in gay attire – both of 'em! You ought to have seen 'em, Perk. No hand-me-down! The real thing!" McLaughlin paused longer than usual. He looked troubled. "Say, Perk," he said presently, "somehow, I'm afraid this particular worm of ours is pluming for flight."

"That's a dainty metaphor, Mac, but it's a little mixed."

McLaughlin glared at Perkins. He hated these petty corrections.

"Ain't a caterpillar a worm, my Harvard prodigy?"

"I grant you that."

"Don't he turn into a butterfly? Don't he plume for flight?"

McLaughlin nailed each successive argument with a bang of his fist on the desk.

"Ain't Skinner getting to be a social butterfly? Get the connection? My metaphor may be mixed, as you say, – which I don't understand, – but my logic is O.K. Say, ain't it?"

"Your metaphor, Mac, suggests a picture. Imagine Skinner with wings on – those long legs drooping down or trailing behind him – like a great Jersey mosquito!"

At which they both laughed.

"Well," said McLaughlin, resignedly turning to the papers on his desk, "it beats me, that's all!"

Skinner had accurately reckoned that McLaughlin's wife would repeat Honey's cryptic remarks to the boss, and so, next day, he felt a natural constraint when in the presence of the senior partner. Constraint in the one reacted upon and caused constraint in the other, until it looked as if McLaughlin and Skinner, who had once been quite sociable as boss and clerk, would be little more than speaking acquaintances, after a time.

At any rate, that night Skinner jotted down: —

"Have you noticed anything in Skinner's conduct, Perk?" said McLaughlin, two days later.

"You're getting morbid about Skinner, Mac."

"No, I ain't, either. But he acts – somehow, I can't get it out of my head that his wife meant – you know what!"

"You think Skinner told her we raised him?"

"That's it!"

"Suppose he did," said Perkins; "what of it?"

"How could he square it with her?" said McLaughlin slowly.

The partners looked at each other with a certain understanding, not too definite – just a suggestion.

"You think I'm morbid, Perk. You think I see things that ain't so. Just you keep your eye on him. See how he acts to you."

But Skinner had more than any constraint on the part of McLaughlin to worry him. His real concern found its source in the domestic circle. At first, he was exuberant, intoxicated with the vision of social possibilities. But now a reaction had set in, a reaction promoted by the attitude of Honey. Honey, too, was now constrained. Skinner persistently pressed her to tell him what was the matter. She finally admitted that she was frightened by the plunge into extravagance they'd taken. They had made a big hole in their bank account. To her, it was like blasting a rock from under the foundation of the wall which for years they had been building up, stone by stone, to stand between them and destitution.

At times, when Skinner allowed his mind to dwell on it, he was shocked. But being the chief sinner in the matter, he felt it incumbent on him to bolster up the faltering spirits of Honey. He would not for a moment admit to her that they had acted unwisely. Even so, he was protesting against the conviction that was gradually deepening within him that he'd made something of a fool of himself!

Invariably, it was during these fits of abstraction, superinduced by the doubt that was broadening in Skinner's consciousness as to the wisdom of his scheme of self-promotion, that either McLaughlin or Perkins encountered him – so curiously does fate direct our affairs with a view to promoting dramatic ends. Once, in the depths of abstraction, Skinner actually passed Perkins in the passageway without so much as a nod of recognition.

"By Jove," said the junior partner to McLaughlin later on, "I believe there is something in your talk about Skinner. He actually passed me in the passageway just now without speaking!"

And because they had begun to watch him, every little thing Skinner did took on an artificial significance – was given undue weight.

CHAPTER V
THE OPERATING EXPENSES OF THE DRESS SUIT

Skinner's feelings were not of the most amiable when on Saturday he drew his first check on his own private bank account to pay himself his first week's raise. And he swore lightly as he realized that this would be a weekly reminder of his folly, perhaps for years to come.

But Honey chirked up wonderfully when he handed her the "extra ten." "I'll deposit this the first thing Monday morning," she cried. "I'm so glad we're beginning to put money back into the bank – we've drawn so much out. And we 'll do it every week until we've paid back every cent we took out!"

And Skinner was glad that she was glad, although he reflected that her process of putting money back into the bank as fast as he drew it out would be about as effectual as the efforts of a squirrel in a little wire treadmill!

At dinner the Skinners opened their hearts to each other. Dearie took out his little book containing the dress-suit account and read off the items to Honey. The balance seemed to be heavily on the debit side.

"Well," said Skinner, "there won't be any more debits, anyway. We've spent all we're going to spend – and don't you forget it! I promise you that!"

"We don't need to spend any more," said Honey. "We have our clothes."

"Yes," said Skinner, "so we have."

"Cheer up, Dearie. There's one thing you forgot to put down to the credit of that dress-suit account. It has made your little wifey very, very happy!"

Honey put her head on Dearie's shoulder.

"For that reason," said Skinner, "and for that alone" – he winked solemnly at the wall over Honey's shoulder – "it has made me very happy!"

He stroked Honey's glossy hair and held her close.

"No," said Honey, resuming her place at the table, which she had left in her exuberance to give Dearie a hug, and knitting her brows, "there's no way of spending any more money. We've made our original investment."

"The initial cost," Dearie corrected.

"We've invested in ourselves," Honey went on.

"Yes, and we've bought our own bonds," Skinner added.

"And they'll pay better than any old bank," cried Honey. Then quickly, "But we won't buy any more!"

"There are other financial stunts besides putting money in the bank," observed Skinner. "Look at Lewis. He invested in himself."

"Just as we're doing," Honey broke in.

"Er – not precisely," Skinner qualified. "But his investment has already returned self-respect, social opportunity, enhanced efficiency."

"And he has n't half as much brains as you have!"

"I don't know about that," said Skinner, rather dubiously. "Anyhow, what he's got are live ones." Then, after a pause, "Look here, Honey, we don't need to worry. We've already invested so much. It's going to continue to bring us in good things – and it is n't going to cost us any more."

"No, indeed, it isn't, Dearie. I'll see to that!" said Honey with firmness.

"And I 'll see to it that you see to it. That'll double cinch it," said Skinner.

Honey held up a finger; then turned and listened.

"That's the postman's whistle. I'll go."

A moment later, she burst into the room, her face radiant. "There," she cried, throwing a large, square envelope down in front of Skinner, "you can credit your dress-suit account with that!"

It was an invitation to a dance at the J. Smith Crawfords' on the fifteenth – just two weeks off.

"I'll put it down in my little book. It is n't exactly tangible, but you can bet your life it may lead to something tangible."

"Tangible?" echoed Honey. "It's a social triumph!"

In his fine, round hand, Skinner inscribed in the little book the following: —

He passed the record over for Honey's approval.

"And, oh, goodie," Honey cried, "we're all prepared for it! Not a penny to spend! Now, don't you dare to think of anything! – is there?"

"You're right, Honey, you're right," Skinner almost shouted.

He paused abruptly; then, in a hoarse whisper, "Say, Honey, you know how to dance?"

Honey stared at him wide-eyed.

"Why – ye-es – I waltz."

"That's archaic. Do you know the new things, those cubist proposition dances where you glide and side-step and pause and back up and go ahead again and zigzag like an inebriated politician?"

"You mean the turkey trot and the tango and the one-step and the fox trot and the hesitation?" Honey rattled off glibly.

"Is it necessary to learn them all?" said Skinner.

They looked at each other for a few moments without a word.

"No use – we've got to do it, Honey."

"But that means money. We've only got two weeks, and that means private lessons! And private lessons mean lots of money!"

"Honey," said Skinner solemnly, "we've invested in this dress-suit engine of conquest. It's no good unless we use it. We must learn the most effective way to use it or all the first cost will be wasted. Besides, it won't cost much to learn to dance. There are places on Sixth Avenue – "

Honey held up both hands.

"Mercy, Dearie, if you learn to dance on Sixth Avenue, you'll have the Sixth-Avenue stamp to you. The men who dance on Sixth Avenue hire their dress suits on Third Avenue – it all goes together. Heavens," she sighed, breaking off abruptly, "have we built up a Frankenstein monster? Is that dress suit of yours going to prove as voracious as the fabled boa constrictor?"

"This dress suit is going to get all it wants to eat," said Skinner with finality.

Honey was frightened at Dearie's newly developed stamina. Skinner, the acquiescent one, putting his foot down like that!

"But, Dearie," she urged, "it isn't absolutely necessary for us to learn to dance. And, remember, you promised not to spend any more money."

"I told you my dress suit was our engine of conquest – plant! You buy your machinery – your plant. That's the initial cost. Then you have to learn how to run it."

He took out his little book and put down: —

"But you promised," Honey persisted.

"That was before we got this invitation. Things have changed. Promised not to spend any more money? What about my being a sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition, eh?" – and Honey was convicted by her own words.

"But, Dearie, what will this dress suit get us into?"

"Debt! – if we don't look out!"

Honey crossed to Dearie, put her head on his shoulder, and began to cry softly.

"There, there," said Skinner, stroking her glossy hair, "don't you cry, Honey. There's nothing to worry about."

She lifted her face and smiled. "There is n't anything to worry about, is there? We have n't anywhere near spent that five hundred and twenty dollars, have we?"

"No," said Skinner grimly, "not yet!"

He disengaged himself from Honey's reluctant arms and slowly mounted the stairs. Once inside his room, he turned and locked the door, still smiling grimly. He strode to the closet, flung the door open, lifted his dress suit from its peg, and held it at arm's length where it swayed like a scarecrow.

"My God, you're a Nemesis!" he growled. "There's one for you – there's another!"

He punched the thing hard and fast.

"That's you, Skinner – that's you – for being an ass – a blooming, silly ass!"

When he rejoined Honey in the dining-room he was smiling, not grimly now, but placidly.

"What is it, Dearie?" she asked.

"Just got something off my chest, that's all."

The words suggested something to Skinner; whenever his exasperation at his folly was too great for him to bear, he'd go upstairs and take it out on the dress suit. And the idea comforted him not a little!

So the Skinners put themselves in charge of a first-class dancing instructor just off Fifth Avenue. For two solid weeks, every day Honey met Dearie after office hours and they practiced trotting the fox trot, stepping the one-step, and negotiating the tango and the hesitation. Skinner was thorough in his dancing, as in everything else. He was quick to learn, light on his feet, and soon was an expert and graceful dancer.

At the end of the brief term Skinner wrote down in his little book: —

The two weeks' loyal devotion to the art of Terpsichore made Skinner at the Crawford dance no less conspicuous as a dancer than as a man of distinguished presence. He found himself greatly in demand, and he made the quick calculation that this new enhancement of his value was due to his dancing – which, in turn, was due to – the dress suit!

Early in the evening Mrs. Crawford, the hostess, introduced Skinner to Mrs. Stephen Colby, the magnate's wife, and Skinner asked for a dance. And as he led that lady to the ballroom, he formulated the following entry in his notebook to be jotted down at the first opportunity: "Credit, dress-suit account, one dance with the wife of a multi-millionaire – a social arbiter. An event undreamed of, even in my most ambitious moments! What next, I wonder?"

Mrs. Colby had a way of commenting upon other persons present with a certain cynical frankness – as became a social arbiter – that amused Skinner, and he took a genuine fancy to her. The wine of the dance got into his blood, and when the music ceased, he begged for another dance.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Colby, "two, if you like. That's all I've got left. Anything to get rid of that devilish bore, Jimmy Brewster. He's coming over here now."

The doubtful nature of the compliment struck Skinner's sense of humor, and he laughed outright.

"What's up?" asked the social arbiter.

"Of two evils – " Skinner began.

"But you're a devilish good dancer, and you don't chatter to me all the time."

Later in the evening. Skinner made the following entry in his little book; —

Between dances, young Crawford took Skinner by the arm. "Come into the den and have a wee nippie."

In the den Skinner found a group of millionaires and multi-millionaires, smoking, drinking casually, and talking in quiet, good-natured tones. For the first time in his life, he was really mixing with the rich. No one there knew what Skinner's position in the business world was. Nor would they have cared if they had known. But Skinner was not trumpeting the fact that he was only a "cage man." Skinner had many original ideas, which, because of a certain lack of assertiveness, he'd never been able to exploit. McLaughlin and Perkins had always looked upon him only as a counter of money and a keeper of accounts. But now he was out of his cage. He talked with these men as he never knew he could talk.

As a "cage man," Skinner had always dealt with men of small caliber, who were ever in a hurry. If he chanced to meet one of these on the street or in a restaurant and undertook to exploit his ideas, the other always seemed bored. His attitude was, "Skinner is only a machine – what does he know about real business?" But the men he was now mixing with in the den seemed to have the leisure of the gods on their hands. They were not bored. They listened with keen interest to what he had to say.

Skinner observed that these men were good listeners and later noted the fact: —

But when they did talk at all, they talked in big figures – millions. And later Skinner jotted down: —

There was a fascination to it all. Skinner felt that somehow he was sitting in a big game – sitting on the edge, perhaps, but rubbing shoulders with some of the men who actually shaped the affairs of the business world. The realization stimulated him, lifted him up. And when he went to claim his next dance with the social arbiter, he felt more of an equal with "bigness."

When Skinner that night put the dress suit away, he patted the coat fondly. "Sorry, Skinner, old chap, – you know what for," he murmured. Then he made the note in his little book: —