“Is that how they’re making them in the East?” doubtfully asked the neophyte, reflecting that the pinched-in snugness of the coat, and the flare effect of the skirts, while unquestionably more impressive than his own box-like garb, still lacked something of the quiet distinction which he recalled in the clothes of Herbert Cressey.  The thought of that willing messenger set him to groping for another sartorial name.  He hardly heard Wickert say proudly: 

“If Bernholz’s makes ’em that way, you can bet it’s up to the split-second of date, and maybe they beat the pistol by a jump.  I bluffed for a raise of five dollars, on the strength of this outfit, and got it off the bat.  There’s the suit paid for in two months and a pair of shoes over.”  He thrust out a leg, from below the sharp-pressed trouser-line of which protruded a boot trimmed in a sort of bizarre fretwork.  “Like me to take you around to Bernholz’s?”

Banneker shook his head.  The name for which he sought had come to him.  “Did you ever hear of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes.  And I’ve seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty,” railed the other.  “Thinkin’ of patternizing Mertoun, was you?”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

“Like to!  There’s a party at the Astorbilt’s to-morrow night; you’d like to go to that, wouldn’t you?  Fat chance!” said the disdainful and seasoned cit.  “D’you know what Mertoun would do to you?  Set you back a hundred simoleons soon as look at you.  And at that you got to have a letter of introduction like gettin’ in to see the President of the United States or John D. Rockefeller.  Come off, my boy!  Bernholz’s ’ll fix you just as good, all but the label.  Better come around to-morrow.”

“Much obliged, but I’m not buying yet.  Where would you say a fellow would have a chance to see the best-dressed men?”

Young Mr. Wickert looked at once self-conscious and a trifle miffed, for in his own set he was regarded as quite the mould of fashion.  “Oh, well, if you want to pipe off the guys that think they’re the whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the swell restaurants.  At that, they haven’t got anything on some fellows that don’t spend a quarter of the money, but know what’s what and don’t let grafters like Mertoun pull their legs,” said he.  “Say, you seem to know what you want, all right, all right,” he added enviously.  “You ain’t goin’ to let this little old town bluff you; ay?”

“No.  Not for lack of a few clothes.  Good-night,” replied Banneker, leaving in young Wickert’s mind the impression that he was “a queer gink,” but also, on the whole, “a good guy.”  For the worldling was only small, not mean of spirit.