CHAPTER I_Skinner's Dress Suit

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SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT

HENRY IRVING DODGE

With Illustrations

[Frontispiece: "I won't take your order unless you throw in that trout

dinner"]

Toronto

Thomas Allen

Publisher

1916

MY WIFE

CONTENTS

I. SKINNER ASKS FOR A RAISE

II. HOW SKINNER GOT HIS RAISE

III. SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT

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

V. THE OPERATING EXPENSES OF THE DRESS SUIT

VI. DODGING A MAGNATE AND WHAT CAME OF IT

VII. SKINNER AND THE "GOLD BUGS"

VIII. CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST

IX. SKINNER FISHES WITH A DIPLOMATIC HOOK

X. SKINNER LANDS A CURMUDGEON

XI. THE OSTRICH FEATHER

ILLUSTRATIONS

"I WON'T TAKE YOUR ORDER UNLESS YOU THROW IN

THAT TROUT DINNER" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"IT'S COME AT LAST! SKINNER'S ASKED FOR A RAISE"

"THE GENERAL EFFECT DOESN'T SEEM RIGHT!"

"THERE," SHE CRIED, "YOU CAN CREDIT YOUR

DRESS-SUIT ACCOUNT WITH THAT!"

"MRS. SKINNER, DAUGHTER OF THE LATE ARCHIBALD RUTHERFORD,

OF HASTINGS-ON-THE-HUDSON, ACCOMPANIES HER HUSBAND"

"WHY CAN'T _I_ GO WITH THOSE PEOPLE," SHE SNIFFLED

_From Drawings by F. Vaux Wilson_

SKINNER'S DRESS SUIT

CHAPTER I

SKINNER ASKS FOR A RAISE

Skinner had inhabited the ironbound enclosure labeled "CASHIER" at

McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., so long, that the messenger boys had dubbed

him the "cage man." To them he had become something of a bluff.

Skinner's pet abomination was cigarettes, and whenever one of these

miniatures in uniform chanced to offend that way, he would turn and frown

down upon the culprit. The first time he did this to Mickey, the

"littlest" messenger boy of the district, who was burning the stub of a

cigarette, Mickey dropped the thing in awe.

But Jimmie of the Postal said, "Don't be scared of _him_! He's locked up

in his cage. He can't get at you!"

So the sobriquet "cage man" was evolved from this chance remark, and the

wit of the thing had spread until everybody had come to think of Skinner

as the "cage man"--a fact which did not add greatly to his dignity.

But on this particular morning the "cage man" was even more harmless than

usual. There was n't a frown in him. He sat at his tall desk and stared

abstractedly at the open pages of his cash-book. He did n't see the

figures on the white page, and he paid no more heed to the messenger

boys, whose presence he was made aware of by the stench of burning paper

and weed, than he did to the clicking, fluttering, feminine activity in

the great square room to his left, over which he was supposed to keep a

supervising eye.

Skinner had stage fright! He had resolved to ask McLaughlin for a raise.

Skinner was afraid of McLaughlin--not physically, for Skinner was not

afraid of anybody that way. He was afraid of him in the way that one man

fears another man who he has hypnotized himself into believing holds his

destiny in his hands. If Skinner had been left to himself, he would

never have asked for a raise, for no advance he could hope to get could

compensate him for the stage fright he'd suffered for months from

thinking about it. No one knew how often he had closed his cash-drawer,

with resolution to go to McLaughlin, and then had opened it again weakly

and gone on with his work. The very fact that he _was_ afraid disgusted

Skinner, for he despised the frightened-rabbit variety of clerk.

It was his wife! She made him do it! Skinner's wife was both his idol

and his idolater. He 'd never been an idol to any one but her. No one

but Honey had ever even taken him seriously. Even the salesmen, whom he

paid off, looked on him only as a man in a cage. But to his wife he was

a hero. When he entered their little house out in Meadevllle, he entered

his kingdom. All of which made it imperative with Skinner to do his very

utmost to "make good" in Honey's eyes.

The Skinners had a little bank account for which they had skimped and

saved. Honey had denied herself new gowns, and Skinner had gone her one

better. If she would not spend money on herself, then he would not spend

money on himself. He had gone positively shabby. But Skinner did n't

mind being shabby. The sacrifice he was making for Honey and the bank

account, the self-denial of it, had exalted his shabbiness into something

fine,--had idealized it,--until he'd come to take a kind of religious

pride in it. Skinner and his wife had watched their little bank account

grow, bit by bit, from ten dollars up. It had become an obsession with

them. They had gone without many little things dear to their hearts that

it might be fattened. Surely, it was a greedy creature! But, unlike

most greedy creatures, it gave them a great deal of comfort. It was a

certain solid something, always in the background of their consciousness.

It stood between them and the dread of destitution. Thus it had become a

sacred thing, and they had tacitly agreed never to touch it.

But what made it imperative for Skinner to ask for a raise was, he had

been bragging. Skinner was only human, and being a hero to his wife had

made him a little vain. He was a modest man, a first-rate fellow, but no

man is proof against hero-worship. He had bragged--a little at

first--about his value to the firm, which had increased the worship. He

had given his wife the idea that he was a most important man in

McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., that he had only to suggest a raise in order

to get it. They could n't do without him.

Several times Honey had hinted to Skinner that the firm was slow to show

its appreciation of his indispensable qualities; but on such occasions

Skinner had urged that the psychological moment had not yet arrived, that

the wave of prosperity that was spreading over the country had not up to

the moment engulfed his particular firm. But one evening, he

ill-advisedly admitted that the waves of the aforesaid prosperity were

beginning to lap the doorstep of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. That was

enough! Next morning Honey gently urged that further delay would be

inexcusable, that the bank account was n't growing fast enough to suit

her, that he must ask for a raise.

Now that Honey had put it up to him to "make good,"--to act,--doubt

entered Skinner's heart. He argued that, if the firm had considered him

worth more money, they would have advanced him. But on the other hand

was the well-known meanness of the partners. Nothing short of a threat

to quit by one or another of their valuable men had ever served to pry

them loose from any cash.

Presently Skinner stepped out of his cage and locked the door behind him.

As he entered the long passageway that led to McLaughlin's office.

Skinner felt like a man who had emerged from a bath-house and was about

to traverse a long stretch between himself and the icy water into which

he was to plunge. Within a few paces of the great glass door marked "MR.

MCLAUGHLIN," Skinner hesitated and listened, hoping to hear voices, which

would give him an excuse to retreat. But there was no sound. Skinner

tapped at the door, turned the knob, and took the plunge into the icy

water!

When he came to the surface and partially recovered his senses, he found

himself facing McLaughlin, president of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

McLaughlin sat at his desk, rotund, red-faced, and pig-eyed, his stubbly

hair bristling with chronic antagonism. Those pig eyes and that stubbly

hair were a great asset to McLaughlin when it came to an "argument."

They could do more fighting than his tongue or his fists, for that matter.

"Hello, Skinner," he said; then waited for the cashier to state his

business.

Skinner had outlined a little argument, but he forgot it, and to cover

his confusion he dragged a chair close to his employer's desk, a

proceeding which rather puzzled the boss.

"What's the row?" he asked.

On his way down the long passageway that led to McLaughlin's office,

Skinner had made up his mind to "demand" a raise. Then he thought it

might be better to "ask" for a raise. Then he decided on second

thoughts, that to "demand" would be a little too stiff, while to "ask"

would put him in the suppliant class. So he compromised with himself and

concluded merely to "suggest" a raise.

"Mr. McLaughlin, I came in to see how you felt about giving me a little

more money."

McLaughlin flushed and swung around in his swivel-chair with a ready

retort on his lips; but, meeting the quiet, gray eyes of his subordinate,

he said simply, "Raise your salary?"

Skinner nodded. "I just wanted to know how you feel about it."

"You know how we feel about it. We have n't done it, have we?"

Skinner saw that the "merely suggest" scheme did n't work. He might have

urged as a reason for his demand his value to the house, but, like most

men, he was a good advocate for others but a poor advocate for himself.

Besides, if he did so, he would give McLaughlin a chance to depreciate

his services, which would be very humiliating. At the mere thought of it

he became nervous, and decided to plead rather than argue.

"My expenses are increasing and--"

But McLaughlin cut him short. "So are ours." The boss was going to add

his customary excuse when tackled for more money, "And times are hard

with us, our customers don't pay up, and our creditors--" but he suddenly

remembered that he was speaking to his cashier.

He turned away and looked into space and drummed on his desk with an

ivory paper-cutter. Thus he remained, apparently pondering the matter

for some seconds, while hope and fear chased each other up and down

Skinner's spinal column. Then the boss turned to his papers.

"I'll talk it over with Perkins. Stop in on your way home, Skinner."

McLaughlin did n't even look up as he spoke, and Skinner felt that

somehow a chasm of antagonism had yawned between him and the boss, that

their relations had suddenly ceased to be harmonious, that they were no

longer pulling together, working against a common competitor, but were

scheming against each other.

"Why the devil does he want to keep me on the rack for seven hours more?"

thought Skinner on his way back to his cage. "Why could n't he say 'yes'

or 'no'?"

Well, anyway, the die was cast. He was n't going to worry about it any

more. Let McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., do that! The "cage man" opened

his cash-book and went to work.

After Skinner had gone, McLaughlin rang the bell on his desk, and when

the boy appeared, he said, "Ask Mr. Perkins please to step in here."

The junior partner, immaculately dressed and twirling his tawny mustache

with a proper Harvard affectation of poise, entered a few moments later

and found McLaughlin with his feet on the desk, staring ahead with

humorous intentness.

"Well," said McLaughlin, "it's come at last!" With true Irish dramatic

instinct, he paused, then plumped out, "Skinner's asked for a raise!"

[Illustration: "It's come at last! Skinner's asked for a raise"]

He turned to note the effect of his words.

"What?" said the junior, taken by surprise, then hastening to suppress

any suggestion of emotion. "That great, big, long-eared, over-grown

rabbit? Did he dare come in here and beard the hound in his kennel?"

"He did that same," said McLaughlin, who had never quite lost his

California vernacular.

"That hair of yours did n't scare him?"

McLaughlin grinned. "I guess it's lost its power." He got up and looked

in the mirror over the mantel. "It _is_ fierce, ain't it? I think I'll

let it grow."

"Don't, Mac. It's your best asset as a bluffer." He shrugged his

shoulders languidly. "You'd look like a philanthropist. They'd _all_ be

asking for a raise!"

"Wonder why he asked just _now_? He does n't know about that new

contract with the Hudson & Erie people, does he?"

"Even if he did, he would n't dare to hold you up on it."

"He _ain't_ that kind, is he?"

"No, Mac, it just occurred to him, that's all--it just occurred to him."

Perkins paused, looked out of the window, then turned. "What do you

think, Mac?"

"We can't start in raising salaries just now, Perk. If one gets it, the

others 'll want it, too. They 'll all be dissatisfied."

"Don't do it--that's all."

McLaughlin reflected a moment. "Did you ever hear of such a thing as a

worm turning?"

"Yes, but a worm does n't turn very fast. There'd be plenty of time to

see the indications and head it off."

McLaughlin drummed with his paper-cutter. "Somehow, I 've always been

afraid of worms. They 're so damned humble," he said presently.

Perkins laughed. "I believe you're afraid you 'll lose Skinner."

"Somebody might have got after him--Billings or Humphreys."

"Nobody's after a man that dresses like that!"

"But he might get after them."

"He does n't want to change. He has no ambition, no initiative. Take it

from me, Mac, any man that wears such clothes has resigned himself to

permanent, innocuous, uninteresting mediocrity."

"But--" McLaughlin protested.

Perkins cut him short. "Any man that wears clothes like a doormat will

let you make a doormat of him!"

"That's just what puzzles me. A good-looking man--fine eyes and a

figure. The only thing that stands between him and one of your Harvard

dudes is a first-class tailor. Perk, why _does_ he dress like that?"

"He began by skimping for that little house out in Meadeville. Then he

got used to going without good clothes and he did n't care."

"It's notorious," McLaughlin commented.

"Nobody cares much whether a cashier in his cage is well dressed," said

Perkins. "You can't see him below the waist-line. He might not have on

either trousers or shoes for all the public knows or cares."

"What kind of a wife has he got?"

"She's just as thrifty as he is. They've got the poverty bug, I guess.

Don't worry about Skinner, Mac. The fear of the poorhouse has kept many

a good man in his place."

McLaughlin turned to Perkins. "But we can't afford to lose him. He's

too honest, too faithful, too loyal."

"I know his value as well as you do, but we don't want to put wise

goggles on him."

"We've got to raise him sometime," McLaughlin urged mildly.

"Yes, but we won't do it till we have to. If he were a salesman, he'd

make us do it. But a man in a cage--why the very fact that he stays in a

cage--can't you see?"

"Then you would n't do it?"

"Of course not!"

"But how?"

"Bluff him--in a tactful way. Let him think we've nothing but his

welfare at heart; that we love him too much to stand in his way; that

it's breaking our hearts to lose him. Still, if he can better himself

we'll have to stand the pain. You're an old poker-player, Mac; you know

how to handle the situation."

"But supposing you're mistaken in Skinner? Supposing he hangs out for a

raise?"

"If he does, we'll have to give it to him. Offer him ten dollars a week

more. But remember, Mac, only as a last resort!"

So when Skinner stepped in at five o'clock, McLaughlin made the bluff.

Skinner did n't call it. Instead, he bowed submissively, almost with

relief, and without a word left for home.

Everything contributed to the drab occasion for Skinner. The weather was

bad, the ferryboat steamier and smellier than ever. As he took his seat

in the men's cabin, he was full of drab reflections--disappointment, deep

disgust. Abysmal gloom surrounded him. His thoughts were anything but

flattering to his employers, or to himself, for that matter, for Skinner

was a just man. They were the cussedest, meanest people that he'd ever

known. But what was the matter with him, Skinner? Why had n't he made a

fight for the raise? It was that old, disgusting timidity that had been

a curse to him ever since he was a boy. Others had pushed ahead through

sheer cheek, while he held back, inert, afraid to assert himself. By

gad, why had n't he made a fight for a raise? They could only sack him,

hand him the blue envelope!

Sack him! The thought brought back the days when he had wandered from

office to office, a suppliant, taking snubs, glad to get anything to do.

The memory of the snubs had made more or less of a slave of him, for

Skinner was a proud man, a man of very respectable family. Perhaps he

ought to be glad that McLaughlin had n't done any worse than refuse him a

raise.

Skinner did not stop to think that it would be easier for him to get a

job now than it had been in those suppliant days. He was now

experienced, skillful, more level-headed. His honesty and loyalty were a

by-word in the business district.

His thoughts took another turn, and he looked at himself in the mirror.

Gad! He had all the earmarks of back-numberhood. His hair was gray at

the temples and he was shabby, neat but shabby. But he was only

thirty-eight, he reflected,--the most interesting period of a man's life;

he was wise without being old. And he was not bad-looking. He studied

the reflection of his face. The picturesqueness of youth was lined--not

too deeply lined--by the engraving hand of experience. What was the

matter with him, then? Why was he not more of a success? Was it because

he had been a "cage man" too long, always taking orders, always

acquiescing subserviently, never asserting?

He looked out of the window. The river was gray, everything was

gray--nothing pleased him. But the river used to be blue, always blue,

when he first crossed it, a buoyant youth. The river had n't changed.

It was the same river he had always loved. Then the change must be in

him, Skinner. Why had he gradually ceased to enjoy things? Who was to

blame for the drab existence he was suffering? Was it the outside world

or himself?

As a boy, things were new to him--that was why the river was blue. But

there were many things new to him to-day--peoples, countries,

customs--yes, a thousand things new and interesting right in New York,

close at hand, if he'd only take the trouble to look them up. Why was

his ability to appreciate failing? Other men, much older than he and

only clerks at that, were happy. He sighed. It must be himself, for,

after all, the world had treated him as well as he had treated the world,

he reflected, being a just man.

Unfortunately, on the train Skinner got a seat in the very center of a

circle of social chatterboxes, male commuters, and female shoppers. Some

talked of their machines and rattled off the names of the makers. There

was the Pierce-Arrow, the Packard, the Buick, and all the rest of the

mechanical buzz-wagons. There was an inextricable mass of

phrases--six-cylinder, self-starter, non-puncturable, non-skiddable. But

he did n't hear any such terms as non-collidable, non-turnoverable, or

non-waltz-down-the-hillable. Nor did they spare him the patriarchal

jokes about the ubiquitous Ford. They talked about the rising cost of

gasoline which brought John D. in for a share of wholesome abuse. At the

mention of John D. everybody turned to golf and Skinner got that

delightful recreation _ad infinitum, ad nauseam_.

Skinner felt that this talk about machines was only to impress others

with the talkers' motor lore. For familiarity with motor lore means a

certain social status. It is part of the smart vernacular of to-day.

Any man who can own a car has at least mounted a few steps on the social

ladder. The next thing to owning a car is to be able to talk about a

car, for if a man can talk well about a machine everybody 'll think that

he must have had a vast experience in that line and, therefore, must be a

man of affairs.

Girls chattered about autos, not to give the impression that they owned

them, but that they had many friends who owned them, that they were

greatly in demand as auto companions--thus vicariously establishing their

own social status.

There was something fraternal about it, Skinner thought, like golf. The

conceit occurred to him that it would be a good scheme to get up a

booklet full of glib automobile, golf, and bridge chatter, to be

committed to memory, and mark it, "How to Bluff One's Way into Society."

It might have a wide sale.

Skinner suddenly realized that his thoughts were a dark, minor chord in

the general light-hearted chatter, for he cordially hated the whole

blooming business of automobiles, golf, and bridge. He was the raven at

the feast. Everybody seemed to be talking to somebody else. Only he was

alone. He wondered why he had not been a better "mixer." Several of the

boys in Meadeville that he knew of had got better positions through the

friendship of their fellow commuters, because they were good "mixers,"

good chatterers.

There was Lewis, for instance, who was just going into the Pullman with

Robertson, the banker. Lewis was nothing but a social froth-juggler. He

had n't half Skinner's ability, yet he was going around with the rich.

Cheek--that was it--nothing but cheek that did it. Skinner detested

cheek, yet Lewis had capitalized it. The result was a fine house and

servants and an automobile for the man who used to walk in the slush with

Skinner behind other men's cars and take either their mud or their

gasoline stench.

Skinner wondered if Lewis and others like him could afford their way of

living. He had always looked forward with a certain satisfaction to the

time when the smash would come to some of these social butterflies, with

their mortgaged automobiles, and then he, Skinner, with his snug little

bank account, would be the one to laugh and to chatter. This reflection

greatly consoled him for wearing cheap clothes. He'd rather have his

money in the bank than on his back. But the smash had n't come to any of

them as yet, he reflected. On the contrary, the more money they seemed

to spend, the more they seemed to make. He wondered how they managed.