The gilded youth's judgment tended toward
the more pronounced herringbones and homespuns.
"All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I've got
to live with these clothes, day in and day out," argued Banneker.
To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. "You could carry off
those sporty things as if they were woven to order for you," he
declared. "You've got the figure, the carriage, the--the
whatever-the-devil it is, for it."
Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars,
Banneker emerged from Mertoun's with his mentor.
"Gotta get home and dress for a rotten dinner," announced that gentleman
cheerfully. "Duck in here with me," he invited, indicating a sumptuous
bar, near the tailor's, "and get another little kick in the stomach. No?
Oh, verrawell. Where are you for?"
"The Public Library."
"Gawd!" said his companion, honestly shocked. "That's a gloomy hole,
ain't it?"
"Not so bad, when you get used to it. I've been putting in three hours a
day there lately."
"Whatever for?"
"Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn't discovered
Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven't had many library opportunities."
"Speaking of Manzanita," remarked Cressey, and spoke of it,
reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together.
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