THE OPERATING EXPENSES OF THE DRESS SUIT
Skinner's feelings were not of the most amiable when on Saturday he
drew his first check on his own private bank account to pay himself his
first week's raise. And he swore lightly as he realized that this
would be a weekly reminder of his folly, perhaps for years to come.
But Honey chirked up wonderfully when he handed her the "extra ten."
"I'll deposit this the first thing Monday morning," she cried. "I'm so
glad we're beginning to put money back into the bank--we've drawn so
much out. And we 'll do it every week until we've paid back every cent
we took out!"
And Skinner was glad that she was glad, although he reflected that her
process of putting money back into the bank as fast as he drew it out
would be about as effectual as the efforts of a squirrel in a little
wire treadmill!
At dinner the Skinners opened their hearts to each other. Dearie took
out his little book containing the dress-suit account and read off the
items to Honey. The balance seemed to be heavily on the debit side.
"Well," said Skinner, "there won't be any more debits, anyway. We've
spent all we're _going_ to spend--and don't you forget it! I promise
you that!"
"We don't _need_ to spend any more," said Honey. "We have our clothes."
"Yes," said Skinner, "so we have."
"Cheer up, Dearie. There's one thing you forgot to put down to the
credit of that dress-suit account. It has made your little wifey very,
very happy!"
Honey put her head on Dearie's shoulder.
"For that reason," said Skinner, "and for that alone"--he winked
solemnly at the wall over Honey's shoulder--"it has made _me_ very
happy!"
He stroked Honey's glossy hair and held her close.
"No," said Honey, resuming her place at the table, which she had left
in her exuberance to give Dearie a hug, and knitting her brows,
"there's no way of spending any more money. We've made our original
investment."
"The initial cost," Dearie corrected.
"We've invested in ourselves," Honey went on.
"Yes, and we've bought our own bonds," Skinner added.
"And they'll pay better than any old bank," cried Honey. Then quickly,
"But we won't buy any more!"
"There are other financial stunts besides putting money in the bank,"
observed Skinner. "Look at Lewis. He invested in himself."
"Just as we're doing," Honey broke in.
"Er--not precisely," Skinner qualified. "But his investment has
already returned self-respect, social opportunity, enhanced efficiency."
"And he has n't half as much brains as you have!"
"I don't know about that," said Skinner, rather dubiously. "Anyhow,
what he's got are live ones." Then, after a pause, "Look here, Honey,
we don't need to worry. We've already invested so much. It's going to
continue to bring us in good things--and it is n't going to cost us any
more."
"No, indeed, it isn't, Dearie. I'll see to that!" said Honey with
firmness.
"And I 'll see to it that you _see_ to it. That'll double cinch it,"
said Skinner.
Honey held up a finger; then turned and listened.
"That's the postman's whistle. I'll go."
A moment later, she burst into the room, her face radiant. "There,"
she cried, throwing a large, square envelope down in front of Skinner,
"you can credit your dress-suit account with that!"
[Illustration: "There," she cried, "you can credit your dress-suit
account with that!"]
It was an invitation to a dance at the J. Smith Crawfords' on the
fifteenth--just two weeks off.
"I'll put it down in my little book. It is n't exactly tangible, but
you can bet your life it may _lead_ to something tangible."
"Tangible?" echoed Honey. "It's a social triumph!"
In his fine, round hand, Skinner inscribed in the little book the
following:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
One social triumph.
He passed the record over for Honey's approval.
"And, oh, goodie," Honey cried, "we're all prepared for it! Not a
penny to spend! Now, don't you dare to think of anything!--is there?"
"You're right, Honey, you're right," Skinner almost shouted.
He paused abruptly; then, in a hoarse whisper, "Say, Honey, you know
how to dance?"
Honey stared at him wide-eyed.
"Why--ye-es--I waltz."
"That's archaic. Do you know the new things, those cubist proposition
dances where you glide and side-step and pause and back up and go ahead
again and zigzag like an inebriated politician?"
"You mean the turkey trot and the tango and the one-step and the fox
trot and the hesitation?" Honey rattled off glibly.
"Is it necessary to learn them all?" said Skinner.
They looked at each other for a few moments without a word.
"No use--we've got to do it, Honey."
"But that means money. We've only got two weeks, and that means
private lessons! And private lessons mean lots of money!"
"Honey," said Skinner solemnly, "we've invested in this dress-suit
engine of conquest. It's no good unless we use it. We must learn the
most effective way to use it or all the first cost will be wasted.
Besides, it won't cost much to learn to dance. There are places on
Sixth Avenue--"
Honey held up both hands.
"Mercy, Dearie, if you learn to dance on Sixth Avenue, you'll have the
Sixth-Avenue stamp to you. The men who dance on Sixth Avenue hire
their dress suits on Third Avenue--it all goes together. Heavens," she
sighed, breaking off abruptly, "have we built up a Frankenstein
monster? Is that dress suit of yours going to prove as voracious as
the fabled boa constrictor?"
"This dress suit is going to get all it wants to eat," said Skinner
with finality.
Honey was frightened at Dearie's newly developed stamina. Skinner, the
acquiescent one, putting his foot down like that!
"But, Dearie," she urged, "it isn't absolutely necessary for us to
learn to dance. And, remember, you promised not to spend any more
money."
"I told you my dress suit was our engine of conquest--plant! You buy
your machinery--your plant. That's the initial cost. Then you have to
learn how to run it."
He took out his little book and put down:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
Operating expenses.
"But you _promised_," Honey persisted.
"That was before we got this invitation. Things have changed.
_Promised_ not to spend any more money? What about my being a
sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower
proposition, eh?"--and Honey was convicted by her own words.
"But, Dearie, what _will_ this dress suit get us into?"
"Debt!--if we don't look out!"
Honey crossed to Dearie, put her head on his shoulder, and began to cry
softly.
"There, there," said Skinner, stroking her glossy hair, "don't you cry,
Honey. There's nothing to worry about."
She lifted her face and smiled. "There _is n't_ anything to worry
about, is there? We have n't anywhere near spent that five hundred and
twenty dollars, have we?"
"No," said Skinner grimly, "not yet!"
He disengaged himself from Honey's reluctant arms and slowly mounted
the stairs. Once inside his room, he turned and locked the door, still
smiling grimly. He strode to the closet, flung the door open, lifted
his dress suit from its peg, and held it at arm's length where it
swayed like a scarecrow.
"My God, you're a Nemesis!" he growled. "There's one for you--there's
another!"
He punched the thing hard and fast.
"That's you, Skinner--that's you--for being an ass--a blooming, silly
ass!"
When he rejoined Honey in the dining-room he was smiling, not grimly
now, but placidly.
"What is it, Dearie?" she asked.
"Just got something off my chest, that's all."
The words suggested something to Skinner; whenever his exasperation at
his folly was too great for him to bear, he'd go upstairs and take it
out on the dress suit. And the idea comforted him not a little!
So the Skinners put themselves in charge of a first-class dancing
instructor just off Fifth Avenue. For two solid weeks, every day Honey
met Dearie after office hours and they practiced trotting the fox trot,
stepping the one-step, and negotiating the tango and the hesitation.
Skinner was thorough in his dancing, as in everything else. He was
quick to learn, light on his feet, and soon was an expert and graceful
dancer.
At the end of the brief term Skinner wrote down in his little book:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
Instruction in dancing A certain stimulation
for two, since the dress- due to dancing which
suit engine of conquest quickens the mental
needs two to run it ... $60.00 forces and makes one
happier and more alert
at his work.
The two weeks' loyal devotion to the art of Terpsichore made Skinner at
the Crawford dance no less conspicuous as a dancer than as a man of
distinguished presence. He found himself greatly in demand, and he
made the quick calculation that this new enhancement of his value was
due to his dancing--which, in turn, was due to--the dress suit!
Early in the evening Mrs. Crawford, the hostess, introduced Skinner to
Mrs. Stephen Colby, the magnate's wife, and Skinner asked for a dance.
And as he led that lady to the ballroom, he formulated the following
entry in his notebook to be jotted down at the first opportunity:
"Credit, dress-suit account, one dance with the wife of a
multi-millionaire--a social arbiter. An event undreamed of, even in my
most ambitious moments! What next, I wonder?"
Mrs. Colby had a way of commenting upon other persons present with a
certain cynical frankness--as became a social arbiter--that amused
Skinner, and he took a genuine fancy to her. The wine of the dance got
into his blood, and when the music ceased, he begged for another dance.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Colby, "two, if you like. That's all I've got
left. Anything to get rid of that devilish bore, Jimmy Brewster. He's
coming over here now."
The doubtful nature of the compliment struck Skinner's sense of humor,
and he laughed outright.
"What's up?" asked the social arbiter.
"Of two evils--" Skinner began.
"But you're a devilish good dancer, and you don't chatter to me all the
time."
Later in the evening. Skinner made the following entry in his little
book;--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
Two more dances with a
social arbiter. That's what's
next! Going some, I reckon.
Between dances, young Crawford took Skinner by the arm. "Come into the
den and have a wee nippie."
In the den Skinner found a group of millionaires and
multi-millionaires, smoking, drinking casually, and talking in quiet,
good-natured tones. For the first time in his life, he was really
mixing with the rich. No one there knew what Skinner's position in the
business world was. Nor would they have cared if they had known. But
Skinner was not trumpeting the fact that he was only a "cage man."
Skinner had many original ideas, which, because of a certain lack of
assertiveness, he'd never been able to exploit. McLaughlin and Perkins
had always looked upon him only as a counter of money and a keeper of
accounts. But now he was out of his cage. He talked with these men as
he never knew he could talk.
As a "cage man," Skinner had always dealt with men of small caliber,
who were ever in a hurry. If he chanced to meet one of these on the
street or in a restaurant and undertook to exploit his ideas, the other
always seemed bored. His attitude was, "Skinner is only a
machine--what does he know about real business?" But the men he was
now mixing with in the den seemed to have the leisure of the gods on
their hands. They were not bored. They listened with keen interest to
what he had to say.
Skinner observed that these men were good listeners and later noted the
fact:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
Important discovery! Big
men of affairs better listeners
than talkers.
But when they did talk at all, they talked in big figures--millions.
And later Skinner jotted down:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
One new experience. Heard
much big talk that was not
hot air!
There was a fascination to it all. Skinner felt that somehow he was
sitting in a big game--sitting on the edge, perhaps, but rubbing
shoulders with some of the men who actually shaped the affairs of the
business world. The realization stimulated him, lifted him up. And
when he went to claim his next dance with the social arbiter, he felt
more of an equal with "bigness."
When Skinner that night put the dress suit away, he patted the coat
fondly. "Sorry, Skinner, old chap,--you know what for," he murmured.
Then he made the note in his little book:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
One important lesson!
Never prematurely vent
spleen on an inanimate
object. Only silly ass does
that.