Skinner's Dress Suit

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: —

CHAPTER VI

DODGING A MAGNATE AND WHAT CAME OF IT

Next morning, good commuter that he was, Skinner made his customary dash for his train. Honey was used to this, but she was not prepared for what followed on this particular morning.

Skinner had only got halfway down to the gate when he saw Stephen Colby's car coming down the road. Here was the multi-millionaire, with whom he had talked on terms of equality the night before, making for the Pullman end of his train – here was he, Skinner, in his shabby old clothes. Would Colby recognize him or would n't he? First, Skinner was afraid he would n't, then he was afraid he would. He decided not to chance it. He darted back into the vestibule, drew the door half to, and waited until the magnate's car had passed; then he emerged from his hiding-place and made one of his characteristic heel-and-toe sprints for the depot. When he got there, he hurried into the smoker – the laboring man's club.

Skinner repeated this somewhat eccentric advance, retreat, and quick dash maneuver for three successive days, dodging the formidable car of the magnate, and hoping that Honey might not be at her customary place at the front window to watch him off to his train. At first, he was amused. It was a joke on himself, he thought. But repetition presently dulled the edge of comedy. On the fourth occasion of this apparently unaccountable behavior on Skinner's part, the "cage man" began to meditate the matter.

Would he have to do this dodging act every day, like a fugitive, he wondered? It was dawning upon him that his shabby clothes had made him a fugitive from respectability. By jingo! He sat up straight as he realized for the first time that he was the only poorly dressed commuter of whom Meadeville might boast. He had prided himself that he'd never given a cuss what other people thought of his clothes, so long as his bank account was intact. By Jove! Perhaps he'd never known what they thought because they were too polite to tell him!

If he'd had no one but himself to consider, Skinner would have made the plunge and bought a new business suit right away – even in the face of what that might entail. And his experience with the dress suit had taught him that every purchase was fraught with complex possibilities. But how could he spring it on Honey – chief guardian of the bank account?

Honey, too, pondered Skinner's curious dash out and back, the first day he did it. She had her suspicions, but said nothing. She simply waited until the following morning to confirm them. And when the whole combination of circumstances – Skinner's advance, Colby's car appearing down the road, Skinner's retreat – was repeated, it was as plain as an open book to the perspicacious little lady. Dearie was shabby, and for the first time in his life he had realized the disadvantage of it. She was secretly glad, for she had always felt that Dearie's thrift with regard to clothes was misplaced. But she could never get him to see it that way. The mere flashing by of Stephen Colby had done more for Skinner in that particular than years of affectionate solicitude on her part. "Really," she mused, "some men have to be blasted out of a rut with dynamite!"