“And if there’s anything I can do for you any time, drop me a line.”

The sumptuous ripple and gleam of the young man’s faultless coat, registered upon Banneker’s subconscious memory as it had fallen at his feet, recalled itself to him.

“What store do you buy your clothes at?”

“Store?” Cressey did not smile.  “I don’t buy ’em at a store.  I have ’em made by a tailor.  Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue.”

“Would he make me a suit?”

“Why, yes.  I’ll give you a card to him and you go in there when you’re in New York and pick out what you want.”

“Oh!  He wouldn’t make them and send them out here to me?  Sears-Roebuck do, if you send your measure.  They’re in Chicago.”

“I never had any duds built in Chicago, so I don’t know them.  But I shouldn’t think Mertoun would want to fit a man he’d never seen.  They like to do things right, at Mertoun’s.  Ought to, too; they stick you enough for it.”

“How much?”

“Not much short of a hundred for a sack suit.”

Banneker was amazed.  The choicest “made-to-measure” in his Universal Guide, “Snappy, fashionable, and up to the minute,” came to less than half of that.

His admiring eye fell upon his visitor’s bow-tie, faultless and underanged throughout the vicissitudes of that arduous day, and he yearned to know whether it was “made-up” or self-confected.  Sears-Roebuck were severely impartial as between one practice and the other, offering a wide range in each variety.  He inquired.

“Oh, tied it myself, of course,” returned Cressey.  “Nobody wears the ready-made kind.  It’s no trick to do it.  I’ll show you, any time.”

They fell into friendly talk about the wreck.

It was ten-thirty when Banneker finished his much-interrupted writing.  Going out to the portable house, he lighted an oil-stove and proceeded to make a molasses pie.  He was due for a busy day on the morrow and might not find time to take the mile walk to the hotel for dinner, as was his general habit.  With the store of canned goods derived from the mail-order catalogue, he could always make shift to live.  Besides, he was young enough to relish keenly molasses pie and the manufacture of it.  Having concluded his cookery in strict accordance with the rules set forth in the guide to this art, he laid it out on the sill to cool over night.

Tired though he was, his brain was too busy for immediate sleep.  He returned to his den, drew out a book and began to read with absorption.  That in which he now sought release and distraction was not the magnum opus of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but the work of a less practical and popular writer, being in fact the “Eve of St. Agnes,” by John Keats.  Soothed and dreamy, he put out the lights, climbed to his living quarters above the office, and fell asleep.  It was then eleven-thirty and his official day had terminated five hours earlier.