“Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan’cher t’ meet th’ push, an’ I don’t want ’em to think I’m floatin’ around with a down-an’-out from Battyville!  You must have some real shoes, Geoff.”

“Enough—­it shall be done!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

“Well, tan Oxfords are all to th’ grapes just now, Geoff.  I don’t mean those giddy-lookin’ pumps with flossy bows onto ’em, but somethin’ sporty, good an’ yellow that’ll flash an’ let folks know you’re comin’.  And here’s Eckstein’s!”

With which abrupt remark Spike plunged into a shop, very dark and narrow by reason of a heterogeneous collection of garments, of ribbons and laces, of collars and ties of many shapes and hues, together with a thousand and one other things that displayed themselves from floor to ceiling; amidst which, Mr. Ravenslee observed a stir, a slight confusion, and from a screen of vivid-bosomed shirts a head protruded itself, round as to face and sleek as to hair.

“Greetin’s, Ikey!” said Spike, nodding to the head.  “How’s pork to-day?”

“Aw—­vat you vant now, hey?” enquired the head.  “Vat’s the vord; now—­shpit it out!”

“It ain’t me, Moses, it’s me friend wants a sporty fit-out an’ discount for spot cash, see?  Show us your half-dollar shirts for a starter—­an’ sporty ones, mind!”

Immediately out came drawers and down came boxes, and very soon the small counter was littered with piles of raiment variously gaudy which Spike viewed and disparaged with such knowing judgment that the salesman’s respect proportionately grew, and Mr. Ravenslee, lounging in the background, was forgotten quite, the while they chaffered after this manner: 

Salesman.  “Here vos a shirt as can’t be beat for der money—­neglegee boosom an’ turnover cuffs, warranted shrunk, and all for vun dollar.”

Spike.  “Come off, Aaron, come off!  Fifty cents is th’ bid!”

Salesman.  “Fifty cents?  Vy, on Broadvay dey’d sharge you—­”

Spike.  “Wake up, Ike!  This ain’t Broadway!  And fifty’s the limit!”

Salesman.  “But shust look at dem pink shtripes—­so vide as an inch!  Dere’s fifty cents’ vorth of dye in dem shtripes, an’ I’ll give it you for seventy-five cents!  On Broadvay—­”

Spike.  “We’re gettin’ there, Ikey, we’re gettin’ there; keep on, fifty’s the call!”

Salesman.  “Fifty cents!  Oi!  Oi!  I vould be ruined!  A neglegee boosom and turnover cuffs!  Vell, vell—­I’ll wrap it up, so—­an’ I make you a present of it for—­sixty!  An’ on Broadvay—­”

Spike.  “Come on, Geoff, Aaron’s talking in his sleep!  Come on, we’ll go on to Mendelbaum’s; see—­we want shirts, an’ ties, an’ socks, an’ collars, an’—­”

Salesman.  “Vait—­vait!  Mendelbaum’s a grafter—­vait!  I got th’ best selection of socks an’ ties on Ninth Av’noo, an’ here’s a neglegee shirt with turnover cuffs—­an’ only fifty cents.  But at Mendelbaum’s or on Broadvay—­”

In this way Mr. Ravenslee became possessed of sundry shirts whose bosoms blushed in striped and spotted splendour, of vivid-hued ties and of handkerchiefs with flaming borders.  From shop to shop Spike led him and, having a free hand, bought right royally, commanding that their purchases be sent around hotfoot to Mulligan’s.  Thus Spike ordered, and Mr. Ravenslee dutifully paid, marvelling that so much might be bought for so little.