as I've a mind to?" Gordon demanded belligerently.

"Sure you have, Gord. You certainly have," a
pacific chorus replied.

"I want one like the last drummer wore through
here," he continued; "a check suit with braid on all
the edges."

The clerk dropped a bulky volume heavily on the
counter. "The Chicago Sartorial Company," he
asserted, "have got some swell checks." He ran
hastily over the pages, each with a sample rectangle
of cloth pasted within a printed gold border, and a
cabalistic sign beneath. Finally, "How's that?" he
demanded, indicating a bold, mathematical design
in pale orange, blue and grey.

A combined whistle rose from the onlookers;
comments of mock amazement crowded one upon another.
"Jin... go! He's got the wrong book -- that's
rag carpet. Don't look at it too long, Gord,
it'll cross your eyes. That ain't a suit, it's a game."
A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice
upon the counter, "It's my move and I can jump
you."

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" the clerk protested;
"this is the finest article woven, the very toniest."

Gordon dismissed the sample with a gesture.
"I'm a man," he pronounced, "not a minstrel." His
attention was held by a smaller pattern, in black

[[150]]

p149 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p150w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p151

v?