Skinner's Dress Suit
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From recent experience, Honey deduced that Skinner would shy at any new purchase, with its ramifying possibilities. Then how to prepare the way? Honey was an arch diplomat – and – Honey was a great cook.
Honey met Skinner at the door the evening of the fourth day and gently drew him into the dining-room.
"Look!" she cried, pointing to the table. "Oysters! – and later – beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!"
Skinner noted with some relief that it was the same formula she had used on a previous memorable occasion. What could it presage? Was it possible that his soul and her soul had but a single thought? Had he betrayed himself by his shuttle-like performance of the past four mornings? Had she observed him, and was she "wise"?
The matter of the business suit was upper-most in the mind of each. But as it was something that involved a further assault upon their financial stronghold, it was a subject that must be approached with great tact. Each, dreading an avalanche of reproach, waited for the other to speak. And it was not until Skinner had finished his second demi-tasse that he began, using the suggestive rather than the assertive form of speech, a form frequently used in the "feeling-out" process. He knew that he could tell by the way Honey received his suggestion whether to go ahead or gracefully to change the subject and save his face.
"I notice, Honey, that Colby and Crawford and the rest of that bunch wear dark business suits," he ventured.
"Dark, but generally with a fine, threadlike stripe, and ties to match always," Honey said softly. "And the simplest jewelry," she went on, – "inexpensive jewelry!"
Then they both fell silent.
"I know what you're thinking about," Skinner ventured again, not unwilling to shift the burden.
"What?"
"You want me to get a new business suit. Now, don't deny it."
He made the "don't deny it" suggest a warning, almost a threat. But now that the ice was broken, Honey did n't take the plunge. Instead, she felt her way in.
"You have n't had one for ever so long – and that was only a cheap one."
"I would n't need one now if I did n't have to live up to that darned dress suit you made me buy."
Honey sighed.
"Think of the cost," Skinner went on, still using the suggestive form and leaving himself an avenue of escape, if necessary.
Honey threw her head back and looked resolutely into Skinner's eyes. "Cost or no cost, you must have one!" Skinner had accomplished his purpose and had at the same time avoided the odium of doing so. But Honey had no such scruples. She had taken the initiative and she was going to see the thing through to the limit. "But we must be very careful about the socks and ties – for, of course, you know, Dearie, you must get socks and ties," she went on. "I have figured it all out."
"You have, you fraud?" said Skinner.
Honey pouted reproachfully, and he hastened to add, "I, too, have figured it all out."
"You fraud!" Honey came over and put her head on Skinner's shoulder.
"Are n't we the great little conspirators, you and I?" said Dearie, as he stroked Honey's glossy hair.
"Yes, each one conspiring all alone by himself against the other."
Next day Skinner bought a new business suit, and accordingly jotted down: —
The first morning Skinner wore his new suit to business, he left the house for the depot with head erect. He did n't give a rap whether Colby saw him or not. But good luck always attends the indifferent in spirit. Colby's car flashed by and the multi-millionaire nodded genially to the "cage man," which elated the latter, for he liked Colby – felt that in a way he was a man after his own heart. But Skinner was too wise to attempt to force himself on the magnate. If there were to be any further cultivation of mutual acquaintance, he resolved to let Colby take the initiative. He would wait.
As Skinner entered the office of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., conscious of his new clothes and suffering somewhat from stage fright, he sensed something in the air of the great room that was devoted to the fluttering femininity of the concern, something humorous. But as he was a man of authority there, there was no outward manifestation of the same. The messenger boys from outside, however, were not subject to the rules of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.
"Gee," Skinner heard Mickey, the "littlest," whisper to Jimmy of the Postal, "pipe de new glad rags on de cage man!"
And Postal, duly impressed, admonished, "You better not burn any wood in here now 'cause he'll git after you." Then, in a whisper, "He never did before 'cause he never had any breeches on an' he did n't dare to run out."
"How do you know dat?"
"You never seen him below de middle of his vest, did you?"
"From down here, lookin' up, wid dat winder in de way, I never seen him much below his collar," whispered Mickey, the "littlest."
"Well, den, you never knew whether he had breeches on or not," pursued the young logician.
Skinner's lips trembled as he overheard, but he took no official notice. Instead, he frowned hard at his cash-book. But when the boys had gone, he turned his face away from the fluttering femininity in the big room and his form shook with emotion.
After a bit, he took out his little book and wrote: —
Later in the day, Skinner crossed to the office of Ransome & Company, on a matter of business for the firm. There was no one there when he entered but the office boy. But the youngster, from force of habit, when he saw Skinner, the acquiescent one, said, "Mr. Ransome's very busy this morning."
"So am I very busy," Skinner jerked out. "Just tell him I'm here."
The boy looked at Skinner in surprise, then without a word shambled into the inside office. Presently, a tall, pompous man entered and looked about for somebody to take his name to Ransome. As the boy emerged from the private office, he caught sight of this gentleman and darted back. In a few moments he returned and spoke to Skinner.
"Mr. Ransome'll see you just as soon as he's finished with this gentleman," indicating the pompous one.
But the new business clothes had knocked all the acquiescence out of Skinner. In their spic-and-spanness they fairly shrieked for respect.
"See here, boy," Skinner exclaimed angrily, "you tell Mr. Ransome that I was here before this gentleman and that I want him to see me now or not at all!"
"But – "
"Go!" said Skinner. "My firm is important if I'm not," he muttered as the boy disappeared.
And as Ransome was seller to, instead of a buyer from, McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., he came out immediately, rubbing his hands.
"Why, Mr. Skinner, I did n't know you were in a hurry."
"Personally, I'm not," replied Skinner, "but my firm's time is valuable."
"Of course – of course – come right in."
When he got back to his cage, Skinner jotted down in his little book: —
"Say, Mac," said Perkins at luncheon, "did you notice our Skinner's brand-new attire?"
"Yes, Perk," said the senior partner, "and I 'm mighty glad of it. I was always ashamed of him – the way he dressed."
CHAPTER VII
SKINNER AND THE "GOLD BUGS"
A new and unforseen, but perfectly logical, development from the purchase of the new business suit awaited Skinner a few days later. It came about in this way. He was making his customary heel-and-toe sprint for the depot when Stephen Colby came bowling along in his 60 H.P. That gentleman nodded to Skinner, pulled up, and took him in.
"You're late," he said genially.
"I am, by Jove, and thank you for the lift," said Skinner.
"I've been wanting to tell you a story," said Colby. "I had it on my list the other night, but somehow I did n't get to it. You know, you can't always follow the list you make out. Stories have got to be apropos of something somebody else says, so my list always gets mixed up and I miss telling some of the best ones."
It was one of the multi-millionaire's pleasures to regale his friends with anecdotal matter of his own experience. But before he had finished this particular story, they had reached the depot. The train had already pulled in and Colby, still talking, led the way into the Pullman. Skinner hesitated on the threshold of that unaccustomed domain, but he felt that the magnate expected him to go in with him, and he followed.
In the "cage man" Colby found a fresh audience. All the way into town he talked about his past efforts, from the time he slept under the grocery-store counter until he reached the Presidency of the Steel Company, and Skinner, fascinated and sympathetic, "listened" his way into the magnate's esteem.
Quite a number of the other "gold bugs" – as Skinner had dubbed them – whom he had seen at the Crawford affair were in the Pullman. They nodded to Skinner in a cordial way, which put him at once at his ease, and he soon felt quite as much at home in the Pullman as he had in the smoker.
That night he told Honey all about it.
"It only costs twenty-five cents extra," he said apologetically.
"That's nothing. I'm glad you did it, Dearie. You must do it every day."
"Very well," said Skinner.
A few days later Skinner said to Honey, as he stretched his long legs under the table and sipped his second demi-tasse, "Well, Honey, I've joined the Pullman Club for keeps. It only costs a dollar and a half a week."
"It's well worth the money," said Honey.
Skinner regarded his beautiful little wife through half-closed eyes. He was puzzled. What curious change had been wrought in this exponent – this almost symbol – of thrift that she should actually encourage him in the pursuit of the ruinous course into which he'd been thrust by the wonderful dress suit! He said nothing, but he jotted down in his little book: —
The trip into town in the Pullman each day was a social event with Skinner. He looked forward to it and what he learned was each night a subject of gossip at the dinner table.
"It's a regular 'joy ride' and I'm getting all kinds of good out of it," said he enthusiastically one evening. "By Jove, clothes are a good commercial proposition."
"Don't talk about the commercial side of it, Dearie. Tell me about the 'gold bugs.'"
"They're wonderful fellows," said Skinner, with the air of a man who had always been accustomed to traveling with such people and was now unbending to confide familiar items of special interest to some unsophisticated listener. "You'd find them fascinating."
"They 're just like other men, are n't they?"
Skinner rather pitied her inexperience. "No, they're not. They're just like great, big boys. The most natural talkers in the world – simple, direct, clear."
"Do you ever talk?"
This question brought Skinner back to earth again. He was just Dearie now.
"Do I? Say, Honey, I've been isolated in that cage of mine so long that I thought I'd forgotten how to talk. But you'd be surprised to hear me – right in with the rest of them!"
"But you can't talk big things, Dearie, like them. You don't know big things."
"Bless you, they don't talk big things. They tell anecdotes. And they talk about the time when they were boys – and their early struggles. Every darned one of them came from a farm or a blacksmith shop. They all love to tell how often their fathers licked 'em. And they gossip about their old friends and things. The ride in is not business, Honey, it's social. There's one thing I've discovered in that Pullman Club," he went on. "These fellows are n't any cleverer than many a man in my position, but they've realized that it's just as easy to play with blue chips as with white ones – and they've got the nerve to do it."
"I don't catch on."
"It's just as easy to play with dollars as with dimes – just as easy to write an order for a thousand as for ten. And it's easier to do business with big men. They're more imaginative, quicker to grasp."
"That's how they got there," Honey interjected.
"But particularly, Honey, these men are all keen students of human nature. They can size a man up – gee! 'Brown's able,' says one. 'Yes, but he's tricky,' says another. 'Carpenter's honest, but he's a fool.' With the 'gold bugs' credit is a combination of honesty and ability."
Skinner sipped his demi-tasse reflectively.
"Honey, you remember what Russell Sage said in reply to Horace Greeley's, 'Go West, young man!' No? Well, this is what he said: 'If you want to make money, go where the money is.' I 've begun to go where the money is. See the connection?"
"I'm glad you have," said Honey, nodding her head. "Those clerks you used to travel with never thought big thoughts or they would n't have been clerks."
"But remember, Honey, I'm only a clerk."
"But you never did belong in the clerk class."
"You're right! I never did! I'm beginning to realize it now. Why, do you know," – leaning over the table and counting off his words with his finger, – "I've had ideas that if I 'd only been able to carry out, ideas that I got right in that little cage of mine – "
Thus Skinner's education progressed. He took as enthusiastic a delight in studying the "gold bugs" as a naturalist would in some very ancient, but recently discovered, insect.
"I 'm finding out lots of good things in that Pullman Club, Honey," said Skinner a week later at the dinner table. "Every one of these 'gold bugs' has something under his skin. They may be Dick Turpins and Claude Duvals and Sam Basses, their methods of getting things may not be ideal, but you can't beat their methods of giving. They've all got lovable qualities. They do a lot of things that show it – and they don't use a brass band accompaniment either."
"For instance?" said Honey, simply and sweetly.
"Well," said Skinner, "take old John Mackensie. He's so close that they say his grandfather was the man who chased the last Jew out of Aberdeen."
Skinner picked up the paper.
"See those initials, honey? 'D. C. D.'"
"I've noticed them."
"Old Mackensie, when he was a boy, came near starving to death. A reporter got hold of his case and printed a paragraph about it just like those you see every day. I got it on the quiet. Mackensie was saved by an anonymous friend who signed himself 'D. C. D.' He never could find out who it was. Several years passed. He watched the papers, but these initials never appeared again. So Mackensie concluded that his unknown savior was dead.
"But he made up his mind to pass the good deed along and here's the romance of it. He wants whoever it was that helped him to get all the credit for it. He wants him to be reminded – if he happens to be alive and 'broke' – that the good thought started is being pushed along. So to-day a newspaper tells a story of an unfortunate girl – a starving boy picked up by the police – a helpless widow – a friendless old man. The next day you read, 'Rec'd from D. C. D. $20.' – 'D. C. D. $50' – as the case may be. That's old man Mackensie."
"And yet they say money kills romance." Honey's eyes shone with appreciation.
"And there's Solon Wright," Skinner went on, "another 'gold bug.' For years every night he has handed a dollar to a certain shambling fellow outside the ferry gate."
"How curious!"
"Briscom told me about it. The strange thing is, it's a man Wright used to detest when he was flush. He does n't like him even now. That's why he gives him the money. Moral discipline, the way he puts it. Can you beat it?"
As a result of these observations in the Pullman, Skinner jotted down in his little book: —
While Skinner was sailing over a fair sea, untroubled by anything but the growing fear that some day Honey might find him out, – about the "raise," – storm clouds were gathering in a wholly unsuspected quarter.
"I saw our Skinner getting out of the Pullman this morning," said Perkins to the senior partner.
"What of it?" said McLaughlin.
"I see him getting out of it every morning."
"Still what of it?" persisted McLaughlin. "The Pullman habit isn't expensive – only a quarter from Meadeville."
"Oh, nothing," observed Perkins. "Nothing in itself, but new clothes and traveling round in a Pullman don't square with the fact that Skinner did n't get his raise."
McLaughlin swung around in his chair. "Say, Perk, what do you mean by these hints? You never did like Skinner."
"You're mistaken, Mac. It was his clothes I did n't like."
"You've been throwing out hints," McLaughlin reiterated, "and bothering me so much lately about Skinner, I wish to goodness I had raised his salary."
"I know," Perkins persisted, "but see what our Skinner's habits have been in the past – penurious. Why the sudden change? You know just as well as I do that a clerk can't travel around with the rich."
"Why not? The man's been saving money for years – got a bank account. All these little things we've noticed you could cover with a few hundred dollars. Come, Perk, out with it! Just what do you mean?"
"It's only a suggestion, Mac, not even a hint – but Pullman cars are great hot-beds for hatching all kinds of financial schemes. That's where you get your Wall Street tips – that's where they grow."
McLaughlin looked serious. He drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter and waited.
"Tips are very good when they go right," Perkins went on, "but when they go wrong – " He hesitated.
"I get you. They're dangerous to a man who is employed in a fiduciary capacity," said McLaughlin very quietly.
"I believe as you do," urged Perkins, "that Skinner is the most honest and loyal man in America – but other honest and loyal men – well, darn it, they're all human."
"Well?" McLaughlin observed, and waited.
"It's a part of wisdom to be cautious. It's just as much for his good as it is for ours. An ounce of prevention, you know. Besides, it's our money he's handling."
"You may be right," said McLaughlin, rising. "But go slow – wait a little. I'll keep my eye on the Meadeville end of it for a while."
Skinner not only "listened" himself into the affections of Stephen Colby, but into the affections of other members of the "gold-bug" set as well. He won his way more with his ears than with his tongue. He'd only been a member of the Pullman contingent a fortnight when he and Honey were invited to dine with the Howard Hemingways. There they met all the vicarious members of the Pullman Club – the wives.
The Hemingway dinner was an open sesame to the Skinners. The ladies of the "walled-in" element began to take Honey up. They called on her. She was made a member of the bridge club.
It cost Honey something to learn the game, – some small money losses, – but these were never charged to the dress-suit account, for a very obvious reason.
So popular did the Skinners become that it was seldom they dined at home. Skinner, methodical man that he was, put down in his little book to the credit of the dress-suit account, not the value of the dinner they got, but what they'd actually saved on each occasion. And he began to feel that the dress suit was earning good interest in cash on the investment.
The Skinners, now that they had engaged in active social life, learned one valuable lesson, which was something of an eye-opener to them both. They found that they had constantly to be on dress parade, as it were, and that in the manners of the social devotee, no less than in his clothes, there can be no letdown. Also, they found that, on occasions, their dining out cost them more in the wear and tear on their patience than a dinner at home would have cost them in cash. For instance, when they returned from the Brewsters' dinner one night. Skinner jotted down in his little book: —
"Well, Perk," said McLaughlin one morning, "I've got an interesting bit for you. The Skinners are doing the society stunt: bridge and that sort of thing."
"That's not enough to convict."
"They're splurging. They're buying rugs and pictures!"
As a matter of fact, Honey had bought one modest rug and one modest picture to fill up certain bare spaces over against the meeting of the bridge club at her house, and being a good manager she could make any purchase "show off" to the limit. But the Skinners' ice man in detailing the thing to the McLaughlins' maid had assiduously applied the multiplication table.
McLaughlin paused.
"Well," said Perkins, "what do you make of it?"
"He's getting too big for his breeches."
"Well?" said Perkins.
"I hate to do it," said McLaughlin, "but – "
"Well?" said Perkins.
"Don't stand there saying 'well,' Perk. Help me out."
"What are you going to do about it, Mac?"
"Did you notice him this morning? He looks as worried as the devil!" McLaughlin drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter. "Perk, we've got to do something – and we've got to do it sudden."
McLaughlin turned. "Come in!" he shouted.
The boy entered and handed the senior partner a card.
"Send him in." He turned to Perkins. "It's Billings. Just you think this over to-night, Perk."
"Hello, Billings."
CHAPTER VIII
CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST
Skinner did look worried, but what ailed him was very foreign to the cause that McLaughlin and Perkins suspected. He was worrying about his diminishing bank account. But it was n't the actual diminution of funds that worried him so much – he was afraid Honey would find him out.
For a long time this fear had haunted him. Like a wasp, it had buzzed constantly about his ears, threatening to sting him at any moment. It had become a veritable obsession, a mean, haunting, appetite-destroying, sleep-banishing obsession.
There were many ways in which this fear might be realized. For instance, Honey had told him that she was thinking of studying finance so as to find out all the little leakages and help them save, and that she was going to ask Mr. Waldron, the teller of the Meadeville National, to instruct her in the intricacies of banking.
What inadvertent remark might not that functionary drop and thus sow suspicion in Honey? At first, Skinner had thought of warning the teller not to discuss these things with Honey. But he made up his mind that that might direct Waldron's attention to their account and lead him to suspect something from the new process of circulation which Skinner had set going when he promoted himself. No – better let sleeping dogs lie in that direction. Instead, Skinner persuaded Honey that it would be an imposition on Mr. Waldron, take up too much of his time. He, Skinner, would give her what instruction she needed.
The more the "cage man" schemed to keep his wife from finding out the deception he'd practiced on her, the more possibilities of exposure developed, and the more apprehensive he became.
No sooner did Honey promise not to bother Mr. Waldron than another danger popped up. By Jingo! There was Mrs. McLaughlin! Honey might again mention to her something about his raise, reiterate what she had hinted at on the night of the First Presbyterian reception. No doubt, if she did, Mrs. McLaughlin would quiz her this time, find out what she was driving at, and report it to McLaughlin and make him, Skinner, a laughing-stock in the eyes of the boss. Then, by a series of recoils, McLaughlin would deny it to his wife, Mrs. McLaughlin would deny it to Honey, and there'd be the devil to pay. And paying the devil, in this particular instance, Skinner apprehended, would be a hard proposition.
Instigated by this fear, ever since the night of the First Presbyterian affair Skinner had schemed to keep Mrs. McLaughlin and Honey apart. It was easy enough at first, when they were only invited to a few affairs, but with the enlargement of their social horizon the danger loomed bigger.