I let him dress to suit himself this morning, so that you
could know the worst at once. Take a good look at him--shoes, coat,
hat--that dreadful cravat!"
"I call this a right pretty necktie," mumbled her victim over a crust
of toast. She had poured coffee for him.
"You hear that?" she asked me. I bowed sympathetically.
"What does he look like?" she insisted. "Just tell him for his own
good, please."
But this I could not do. True enough, during our short ride he had
been reminding me of one of a pair of cross-talk comedians I had once
seen in a music-hall. This, of course, was not a thing one could say.
"I dare say, Madam, he could be smartened up a bit. If I might take
him to some good-class shop----"
"And burn the things he's got on----" she broke in.
"Not this here necktie," interrupted Cousin Egbert rather stubbornly.
"It was give to me by Jeff Tuttle's littlest girl last Christmas; and
this here Prince Albert coat--what's the matter of it, I'd like to
know? It come right from the One Price Clothing Store at Red Gap, and
it's plenty good to go to funerals in----"
"And then to a barber-shop with him," went on Mrs. Effie, who had paid
no heed to his outburst. "Get him done right for once."
Her relative continued to nibble nervously at a bit of toast.
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