Chapter 4

SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT BEGINS TO GET IN ITS FINE WORK

Meadeville was a suburb once removed--a kind of second cousin to the big city--the only kind of a suburb that could really be aristocratic. Meadeville was populated considerably by moneyed New Yorkers and the First Presbyterian was the smartest church in town. The men who passed the plate all belonged to the millionaire class.

But no church congregation was ever made up entirely of aristocrats. It needs a generous sprinkling of the poor and the moderately well-to-do to keep up the spiritual average. This was the case with the First Presbyterian. Its gatherings were eminently democratic. It was the only occasion when the "upper ten" felt that they could mix with the other "hundreds" without any letting-down of the bars. The ultra-fashionable rarely attended the church gatherings. But this was a special occasion. A new pastor was to be introduced. So, prompted by curiosity and a desire to make a good impression on the future custodian of their morals, the smart set attended in full force.

Skinner knew every one of the smart set by sight. But the smart set did n't know Skinner, for he was only a clerk, and no clerk ever had individuality enough to stamp himself on the memory of a plutocrat.

There were a large number of clerks present, fellow commuters, and Skinner noticed with some embarrassment that a considerable number of these gentlemen were not in evening dress.

As like attracts like,--on the same principle that laborers in a car foregather with other laborers,--so Skinner began to foregather with the dress-suit contingent. Their clothes attracted his clothes. He felt that he belonged with them. Furthermore, he had a painful consciousness of being conspicuous among the underdressed men. He also wished to escape a certain envy which he sensed in a few of his fellow clerks, because of his dress suit. While this was a novel sensation to Skinner--the walk-in-the-slush, sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition--he did n't like it, for he was a kind-hearted man, always considerate of the feelings of others. And for the moment it threatened to check the pleasure he was beginning to take in his new clothes.

As Skinner aligned himself with the dress-suit contingent, he realized that many of these were clerks who had risen in the world and owned their own machines, while the under-dressed men still belonged to the bicycle club.

Many of the newly rich men were old acquaintances of Skinner's who had passed him, left him behind, as it were, years before. To these, his dress suit was a kind of new introduction. They seemed pleased to see him. They clapped him on the shoulder. It struck his sense of humor that they were like old friends who had preceded him to heaven and were waiting to welcome him to their new sphere.

He thrust his hands into his pockets--as he saw the others do--and strode, not walked or glided pussy-footedly, as became a "cage man." And he began to feel a commiseration for the men who were not in dress suits.

Skinner found himself taking a sudden interest in the social chatter about him. It did not bore him now. Why had he always hated it so, he asked himself? Probably because he had never taken the trouble to understand it--but he was a rank outsider then. He began to wonder if social life were really so potent of good cheer, physical and mental refreshment. He began to realize that he had permitted himself to dislike a great institution because of a few butterflies whose chatter had offended him.

But he now saw that important business men were social butterflies, at times. Surely, they must see something in it. And if these clever and able men saw something in it, then he, Skinner, must have been something of an ass to deny himself these things.

When McLaughlin came up and greeted him cordially, McLaughlin seemed a changed man. His eyes were genial, and even his hair was conciliatory. And social intercourse had done that! "Gee whiz!" said Skinner to himself.

And Honey! Skinner took a brand-new pride in her. She was radiantly happy, radiantly beautiful in a gown designed by a clever dress-builder to exploit every one of her charms. She was blooming like a rose whose bloom had been arrested by the sordid things of life. Honey had been "taken up." She was now the very center of a group of some of the "best" people there. By Jove, McLaughlin's wife had thrust her arm through Honey's and was leading her off to another group. As he watched her, Skinner felt that even sin--when undertaken for another--has its compensations!

"Who is that very distinguished man over there?" said Mrs. J. Smith Crawford, the wife of the senior deacon of the First Presbyterian.

Miss Mayhew adjusted her lorgnette. "_What_ very distinguished man?"

"There's only one," replied Mrs. Crawford. "The man over there who looks like a cross between a poet and an athlete."

"Oh, that's Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. The Skinners are great friends of ours."

As a matter of fact, Miss Mayhew had never taken the trouble to notice the Skinners, but now that Skinner had made an impression on the exclusive Mrs. Crawford, that altered the case.

"I'm glad," said Mrs. Crawford. "Go get him."

Skinner found Mrs. Crawford most engaging. She was neither haughty nor full of the pedantry with which social leaders try to disabuse the mind of the ordinary citizen that the rich must necessarily be dubs. Twenty minutes later, Deacon Crawford came up and Skinner was presented.

"I'm mighty glad to know you, Mr. Skinner," said the deacon. "Some views I heard you expressing just now were quite in accord with my own."

Skinner left the Crawfords presently with his head in the clouds. But he was brought down to earth by some one plucking him by the sleeve.

"Gee, Skinner, where did you get it?" said Allison, who stood there in a sack suit, grinning.

"Like it?" said Skinner, pleased.

"You bet! It's a Jim Lulu!"

"My wife made me get it," said Skinner, winking at Allison.

"Well, I hope you'll continue to recognize us," said Allison--and Skinner again felt the touch of envy, but he did n't like it, for Skinner was no snob.

As Skinner and Honey were departing, Lewis touched him on the arm. "We'll drop you and Mrs. Skinner at the house," he said. "We've plenty of room in our car."

The Lewises and the Skinners bade each other a very cordial, if not affectionate, good-night when Lewis's car pulled up at Skinner's door.

"Can you beat it?" said the "cage man" as they closed the door behind them. "Lewis has scarcely noticed me for two years."

"It was the dress suit, Dearie."

"It's earned a dollar and a half already."

"How?" said Honey, surprised.

"Cab fare! Say, I'm going to keep an account of what this dress suit actually cost me and what it brings in," said Skinner.

"And to think of it, Dearie,--it's all because of your getting that raise."

Honey laid her head on Dearie's shoulder, as she always did when she felt sentimental.

"Eh-huh," said Skinner absently.

"I'm so grateful to think you got it--I just couldn't help telling Mrs. McLaughlin--"

"Huh?" Skinner interrupted. "You did n't mention that raise to Mrs. McLaughlin, did you?"

"Why should n't I?"

"But _did_ you?" said Skinner, with apprehension.

"Why, no. I simply told her I was so grateful for the mark of appreciation they'd shown!"

"And what did Mrs. McLaughlin say?"

"She asked me what I meant."

"And what did _you_ say?"

"I told her her husband would understand and I wanted him to know just how I felt about it."

"The devil you did," said Skinner.

True to his word, Skinner proceeded to keep a little book marked "Dress-Suit Account." He was probably the only man, he reflected, who had ever done such a thing, and he did it at first more as a joke than anything else. But he found that the "Dress-Suit Account" developed serious as well as humorous possibilities. He first entered carefully, item by item, the cost of the dress suit and its accessories.

_Dress-Suit Account_

_Debit_ _Credit_

Dress suit ......... $90.00 Dress shirt ........ 4.00 Tie ................ .50 Collar ............. .25 Shoes .............. 6.00 Gloves ............. 1.50 Studs and cuff-links 4.00 Hat ................ 6.00 Overcoat ........... 40.00 Hose ............... .50 Garters ............ .50 Underwear .......... 8.00 Monocle chain ...... 1.50 -------- Total .............. $162.75

To that he added the cost of Honey's outfit:

_Debit_ _Credit_

Gown ............... $100.00 Underwear .......... 10.00 Hose ............... 3.00 Corset ............. 15.00 Slippers ........... 10.00 Wrap ............... 50.00 Gloves ............. 4.00 -------- Total .............. $192.00

Explanatory comment: Honey's outfit not directly descended from, but collaterally related to "Dress-Suit Account"--an inevitable expenditure.

Skinner noted that everything was on the debit side until the night of the First Presbyterian reception. Then he put down:--

_Dress-Suit Account_

_Debit_ _Credit_

Beginning of social education.

And he did n't neglect to add the relatively unimportant item:--

_Debit_ _Credit_

Cab fare saved: $1.50.

From that time on, both debit and credit items were put down as they occurred to Skinner.

While Skinner was thus directly concerned with the dress-suit account, that potent affair was rapidly developing ramifications in an unsuspected direction.

"I say, Perk," said McLaughlin to the junior partner, the day after the reception, "I saw Skinner and his wife at the First Presbyterian affair in Meadeville last night, and, by jingo, they were all dressed up to the nines."

"There's nothing startling in that."

"No--but what do you suppose Skinner's wife said to Mrs. Mac?"

Perkins sighed heavily at the bare suggestion. "What the deuce has that got to do with me?"

"Wait till I tell you. She almost wept on Mrs. Mac's neck while she told her how grateful she was--grateful for the way we had shown our appreciation of Skinner!"

Perkins pricked up his ears. "The deuce you say!"

"I thought you'd come to," said McLaughlin.

"What did she mean by that?"

"Don't know. Mrs. Mac asked her what she was driving at--and she said I 'd understand. She wanted me to know how she felt about it--that's all!"

Perkins's only comment was, "Curious!"

"Say, Perk," McLaughlin went on, "do you reckon she was trying to be sarcastic--trying to give us a sly dig for turning Skinner down?"

"He'd never tell her that."

"Then what _did_ she mean?"

Perkins shrugged his shoulders.

McLaughlin knitted his brows. "I don't understand it." He drummed on the table with the paper-knife. "I told you I was afraid of worms," he said after a pause.

"He has n't begun to turn yet."

"How do you know? Hang it! A worm is always turning. There's no telling when he begins. He crawls in curves."

"Oh, rats!" was Perkins's only comment.

"Rats, eh? Skinner asked for a raise, did n't he? He did n't get it, did he? Right on top of it he comes out in gay attire--both of 'em! You ought to have seen 'em, Perk. No hand-me-down! The real thing!" McLaughlin paused longer than usual. He looked troubled. "Say, Perk," he said presently, "somehow, I'm afraid this particular worm of ours is pluming for flight."

"That's a dainty metaphor, Mac, but it's a little mixed."

McLaughlin glared at Perkins. He hated these petty corrections.

"Ain't a caterpillar a worm, my Harvard prodigy?"

"I grant you that."

"Don't he turn into a butterfly? Don't he plume for flight?"

McLaughlin nailed each successive argument with a bang of his fist on the desk.

"Ain't Skinner getting to be a social butterfly? Get the connection? My metaphor may be mixed, as you say,--which I don't understand,--but my logic is O.K. Say, ain't it?"

"Your metaphor, Mac, suggests a picture. Imagine Skinner with wings on--those long legs drooping down or trailing behind him--like a great Jersey mosquito!"

At which they both laughed.

"Well," said McLaughlin, resignedly turning to the papers on his desk, "it beats me, that's all!"

Skinner had accurately reckoned that McLaughlin's wife would repeat Honey's cryptic remarks to the boss, and so, next day, he felt a natural constraint when in the presence of the senior partner. Constraint in the one reacted upon and caused constraint in the other, until it looked as if McLaughlin and Skinner, who had once been quite sociable as boss and clerk, would be little more than speaking acquaintances, after a time.

At any rate, that night Skinner jotted down:--

_Dress-Suit Account_

_Debit_ _Credit_

A certain constraint on the part of McLaughlin.

"Have _you_ noticed anything in Skinner's conduct, Perk?" said McLaughlin, two days later.

"You're getting morbid about Skinner, Mac."

"No, I ain't, either. But he acts--somehow, I can't get it out of my head that his wife meant--you know what!"

"You think Skinner told her we raised him?"

"That's it!"

"Suppose he did," said Perkins; "what of it?"

"How could he square it with her?" said McLaughlin slowly.

The partners looked at each other with a certain understanding, not too definite--just a suggestion.

"You think I'm morbid, Perk. You think I see things that ain't so. Just you keep your eye on him. See how he acts to you."

But Skinner had more than any constraint on the part of McLaughlin to worry him. His real concern found its source in the domestic circle. At first, he was exuberant, intoxicated with the vision of social possibilities. But now a reaction had set in, a reaction promoted by the attitude of Honey. Honey, too, was now constrained. Skinner persistently pressed her to tell him what was the matter. She finally admitted that she was frightened by the plunge into extravagance they'd taken. They had made a big hole in their bank account. To her, it was like blasting a rock from under the foundation of the wall which for years they had been building up, stone by stone, to stand between them and destitution.

At times, when Skinner allowed his mind to dwell on it, he was shocked. But being the chief sinner in the matter, he felt it incumbent on him to bolster up the faltering spirits of Honey. He would not for a moment admit to her that they had acted unwisely. Even so, he was protesting against the conviction that was gradually deepening within him that he'd made something of a fool of himself!

Invariably, it was during these fits of abstraction, superinduced by the doubt that was broadening in Skinner's consciousness as to the wisdom of his scheme of self-promotion, that either McLaughlin or Perkins encountered him--so curiously does fate direct our affairs with a view to promoting dramatic ends. Once, in the depths of abstraction, Skinner actually passed Perkins in the passageway without so much as a nod of recognition.

"By Jove," said the junior partner to McLaughlin later on, "I believe there _is_ something in your talk about Skinner. He actually passed me in the passageway just now without speaking!"

And because they had begun to watch him, every little thing Skinner did took on an artificial significance--was given undue weight.