ct for you," continued Cressey, the sage, "shows in your
togs."

"When do I pay, then?"

"Oh, in three or four months he sends around a bill. That's more of a
reminder to come in and order your fall outfit than it is anything else.
But you can send him a check on account, if you feel like it."

"A check?" repeated the neophyte blankly. "Must I have a bank account?"

"Safer than a sock, my boy. And just as simple. To-morrow will do for
that, when we call on the shirt-makers and the shoe sharps. I'll put you
in my bank; they'll take you on for five hundred."

Arrived at Mertoun's, Banneker unobtrusively but positively developed a
taste of his own in the matter of hue and pattern; one, too, which
commanded Cressey's respect. The gilded youth's judgment tended toward
the more pronounced herringbones and homespuns.

"All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I've got
to live with these clothes, day in and day out," argued Banneker.

To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. "You could carry off
those sporty things as if they were woven to order for you," he
declared. "You've got the figure, the carriage, the--the
whatever-the-devil it is, for it."

Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars,
Banneker emerged from Mertoun's with his mentor.

"Gotta get home and dress for a rotten dinner," announced that gentleman
cheerfully. "Duck in here with me," he invited, indicating a sumptuous
bar, near the tailor's, "and get another little kick in the stomach. No?
Oh, verrawell. Where are you for?"

"The Public Library."

"Gawd!" said his companion, honestly shocked. "That's a gloomy hole,
ain't it?"

"Not so bad, when you get used to it. I've been putting in three hours a
day there lately."

"Whatever for?"

"Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn't discovered
Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven't had many library opportunities."

"Speaking of Manzanita," remarked Cressey, and spoke of it,
reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together. "Did the
lovely and mysterious I.O.W. ever turn up and report herself?"

Banneker's breath caught painfully in his throat.

"D'you know who she was?" pursued the other, without pause for reply to
his previous question; and still without intermission continued: "Io
Welland. _That_'s who she was. Oh, but she's a hummer! I've met her
since. Married, you know. Quick work, that marriage. There was a dam'
queer stor