He dressed like a Deadwood gambler, he talked
like a stable boy; but for all that, you couldn't fail to see he was a
gentleman born and bred. Yes, he was a gentleman, though he mixed profanity
into his ordinary flow of conversation more liberally than did I when in a
rage.
I stood up before him, threw my coat back, thrust my thumbs into my
trousers pockets and slowly turned about like a ready-made tailor's dummy.
"Monson," said I, "what do you think of me?"
He looked me over as if I were a horse he was about to buy. "Sound, I'd
say," was his verdict. "Good wind--uncommon good wind. A goer, and a
stayer. Not a lump. Not a hair out of place." He laughed. "Action a bit
high perhaps--for the track. But a grand reach."
"I know all that," said I. "You miss my point. Suppose you wanted to enter
me for--say, the Society Sweepstakes--what then?"
"Um--um," he muttered reflectively. "That's different."
"Don't I look--sort of--new--as if the varnish was still sticky and might
come off on the ladies' dresses and on the fine furniture?"
"Oh--that!" said he dubiously. "But all those kinds of things are matters
of taste."
"Out with it!" I commanded. "Don't be afraid. I'm not one of those damn
fools that ask for criticism when they want only flattery, as you ought
to know by this time.
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