It was not possible, but it had happened just the same. Of course
Manhattan would soon take the color out of him. It always did out of
everybody. The city was so big, so overpowering, so individual itself,
that it tolerated no individuality in its citizens. Whitford had long
since become a conformist. He was willing to bet a hat that this big
brown Arizonan would eat out of the city's hand within a week. In the
meantime he wanted to be among those present while the process of
taming the wild man took place. Long before the cowpuncher had
finished his story of hog-tying the Swede to a hitching-post with his
own hose, the mining man was sealed of the large tribe of Clay
Lindsay's admirers. He was ready to hide him from all the police in
New York.
Whitford told Stevens to bring in the fifty-five-dollar suit so that he
could gloat over it. He let out a whoop of delight at sight of its
still sodden appearance. He examined its sickly hue with chuckles of
mirth.
"Guaranteed not to fade or shrink," murmured Clay sadly.
He managed to get the coat on with difficulty. The sleeves reached
just below his elbows.
"You look like a lifer from Sing Sing," pronounced Whitford joyously.
"Get a hair-cut, and you won't have a chance on earth to fool the
police."
"The color did run and fade some," admitted Clay.
"Worth every cent of nine ninety-eight at a bargain sale before the
Swede got busy with it--and he let you have it at a sacrifice for
fifty-five dollars!" The millionaire wept happy tears as a climax of
his rapture.
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