So I went down into my trunks, and disinterred four dress suits and three
Tuxedos, together with all the appurtenances thereto. Oh, Rankin was
certainly a wonder! There was a gay-colored smoking-jacket and cap that
one of the boys took a fancy to and insisted on wearing, but I drew the
line at that. We nearly had a fight over it, right there.

When we were dressed--and I had to valet the whole lot of them, except
Frosty, who seemed wise to polite apparel--we were certainly a bunch of
winners. Modesty forbids explaining just how _I_ appear in a dress suit.
I will only say that my tailor knew his business--but the others were
fearful and wonderful to look upon. To begin with, not all of them stand
six-feet-one in their stocking-feet, or tip the scales at a hundred and
eighty odd; likewise their shoulders lacked the breadth that goes with the
other measurements. Hence my tailor would doubtless have wept at the
sight; shoulders drooping spiritlessly, and sleeves turned up, and
trousers likewise. Frosty Miller, though, was like a man with his mask
off; he stood there looking the gentleman born, and I couldn't help
staring at him.

"You've been broken to society harness, old man, and are bridle-wise,"
I said, slapping him on the shoulder. He whirled on me savagely, and his
face was paler than I'd ever seen it.

"And if I have--what the hell is it to you?" he asked unpleasantly, and
I stammered out some kind of apology. Far be it from me to pry into a man's
past.

I straightened Sandy Johnson's tie, turned up his sleeves another inch,
and we started out. And I will say we were a quaint-looking outfit.
Perhaps my meaning will be clearer when I say that every one of us wore