Only fate could have brought together this man and this
suit, so manifestly destined for each other since the hour when Eve
began to patch up fig leaves for Adam.
"Like a coat of paint," he murmured aloud.
The cowpuncher grinned. He understood the business that went with
selling a suit in some stores. But it happened that he liked this suit
himself. "How much?" he repeated.
The owner of the store dwelt on the merits of the suit, its style, its
durability, the perfect fit. He covered his subject with artistic
thoroughness. Then, reluctantly, he confided in a whisper the price at
which he was going to sacrifice this suit among suits.
"To you, my friendt, I make this garment for only sixty-five dollars."
He added another secret detail. "Below wholesale cost."
A little devil of mirth lit in Lindsay's eye. "I'd hate to have you
rob yoreself like that. And me a perfect stranger to you too."
"Qvality, y' understan' me. Which a man must got to live garments like
I done to appreciate such a suit. All wool. Every thread of it.
Unshrinkable. This is a qvality town. If you want the best it costs a
little more, but you got anyhow a suit which a man might be married in
without shame, understan' me."
The Arizonan backed off in apparent alarm. "Say, is this a weddin'
garment you're onload'n' on me? Do I have to sashay down a church
aisle and promise I do?"
Mr. Bernstein explained that this was not obligatory. All he meant was
that the suit was good enough to be married in, or for that matter to
be buried in.
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