A combined whistle rose from the onlookers; comments of mock amazement
crowded one upon another. "Jin ... go! He's got the wrong book--that's rag
carpet. Don't look at it too long, Gord, it'll cross your eyes. That ain't
a suit, it's a game." A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice upon
the counter, "It's my move and I can jump you."

"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" the clerk protested; "this is the finest article
woven, the very toniest."

Gordon dismissed the sample with a gesture. "I'm a man," he pronounced,
"not a minstrel." His attention was held by a smaller pattern, in black
and white, with an occasional red thread drawn through. "That's it," he
decided; "that's it, with braid. What will that damage me?"

The clerk consulted the sign appended to the sample, then raced through a
smaller, supplementary volume, where he located the item in question.
"That cloth you picked out," he announced importantly, "is one of the best
the Chicago Sartorial Company put out. Cut ample, with sleeves lined in
silkaleen and back in A1 mohair, it'll stand you thirty-eight dollars.
Genuine Eytalian thread silk lining will come at four and a half more."

"She'll do," Gordon told him, "with the silk and the braid edge."

The clerk noted the order; then with a tape measure affixed to a slim,
wooden angle, came from behind the counter. "Remove the coat, please."

Gordon, with a patent self-consciousness, took off his coat, revealing a
flimsy white silk shirt striped like a child's stick of candy in vivid
green.

The whistle arose with renewed force; gnarled and blackened fingers
gingerly felt the shirt's texture. "Man dear! The lily of Lebanon. Arrayed
like a regular prostitute ... silk shirt tails."

The clerk skilfully conducted a series of measurements, noting results on
a printed form; outer and inner seams were tallied, chest and thigh and
knee recorded, the elbow crooked. "Don't forget his teeth," the clerk was
admonished; "remember the braid on the pants."

Gordon resumed his coat, the clerk returned the books to their shelf, and
the factitious excitement subsided. The light faded, the depths of the
store swam in blue obscurity, but the fragrance of the spring dusk had
deepened.

"When are you going to get the dog, Gord?" Tol'able asked.

"What dog?" another interposed curiously.

"Why, ain't you heard about Gord's dog," the chorus demanded. "Where have
you been--up with the Dutch on the South Fork? Gord's got a dog com