THE SPRING SUIT BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

“At Fuller Benjamin’s.”

“No!” cried the stout girl. “But it is! I thought all along it looked kind o’ familiar. Why, honey, that’s the suit we girls call the Crown Prince, because it oughtn’t to be at large! Why, it’s a regular joke with us! I’ve tried to sell it a dozen times myself. What? Sure I work at Fuller Benjamin’s. And—say, I remember you now. You came in just on closing time and Sadie Lewis waited on you. For the love o’ Pete, why ever did you go and be so foolish as to let Sadie wish a quince like that on you?”

“She looked so tired,” said Rosie miserably, “I just hated to bother her to show me a lot of suits; so I took the first. It seemed such a shame. She looked all worn out.”

For the first time in her career as a chewer, a career that had covered two decades, the stout girl swallowed her gum twice in a single evening. Only the supremest emotion could have made her do this, for she was a girl who was careful of her chewing gum, even to the extent of parking it under the counter or behind doors for future use when it was not in active service.

When she bought gum she bought the serial rights. But now, in the face of this extraordinary revelation, swallowing it seemed the only thing to do. She was stunned. A miracle had happened. With her own eyes she had seen a shopper who had consideration for shopgirls. Diogenes could not have been more surprised if he had found his honest man.

“Well, if that don’t beat everything!” she gasped. “Wherever did you get those funny ideas of yours about us salesladies being human? Didn’t you know we was just machines? Now you listen here, honey: There’s certainly something coming to you for that, and here’s where you’re going to get it. I’ve the cutest suit all tucked away down at the store, just ready and waiting for you. Honest, it’s a bird! What’s your size? Eighteen misses’, I should judge. Why, it’ll fit you just like mother made. I sold it this morning to a dame who went dippy over it.”

“It’s sold!”

“Don’t you worry about that. It hasn’t been sent off yet. And I know the dame that got her hooks onto it. She’s one of the Boomerang Sisters, the kind you send goods to and have ’em come whizzing back to you. She’s a C. O. D. lizard. She ain’t worthy of that suit, honey, and she ain’t going to get it. She’ll get the Crown Prince instead and be told that’s what she ordered.”

“But won’t you get into trouble?”

“There you go again, worrying yourself about the poor working girl! Say, that habit’s going to grow on you if you don’t watch out! I won’t get into no trouble. She’ll let out a squawk you’ll be able to hear as far as White Plains, I’ve no doubt; but I should manifest concern! I’m quitting on the seventeenth. Going to be married!”

The stout girl sighed dreamily.

“Say, there’s a fellow that really is a fellow! Runs a dry-goods-and- notions store back home where I come from; been crazy about me since we were kids; has a car, coupla help, half-acre lot back of the house, twenty-eight chickens, and a bulldog that he’s been offered fifty dollars for, and grows his own vegetables. I’m the lucky girl, all right. Not a thing to it!

“Well, you look in at the store bright and early to-morrow morning, ask for me—Miss Merridew’s my name—and I’ll have that suit waiting for you. I’ll say good night now. Got to write to my boy before I hit the hay. See you later!”

The stout girl withdrew. Presently Rosie heard her through the wall singing Poor Butterfly. A little later there came an imperious banging on the floor above, from the room where the long-haired young man lived who was supposed to be writing a play. The singing stopped. Silence reigned.

George was dealing with a poetess in his suave manner when Rosie reached the office of the Ladies’ Sphere at noon next day. In a few moments the poetess had receded like a brightly colored wave that rolls down the beach. The elevator engulfed her and she was no more. George came over to Rosie.

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