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Page 10
"Applying that rule," continued the Senator, strolling up and down, "the
things to see in London are the Crystal Palace and the Albert Memorial.
Especially the Albert Memorial. That was a man who played second fiddle
to his wife, and enjoyed it, all his life long; and there he sits in
Hyde Park to-day, I understand, still receiving the respectful homage of
the nation--the only case on record."
"Westminster Abbey would be much better _for_ you," said momma.
"Don't you think," I put in, "that if momma is to get any sleep----"
"Certainly. Now, another thing that Bramley said was, 'Look here,' he
said, 'remember the Unattainable Elsewhere--and get it. You're likely to
be in London. Now the Unattainable Elsewhere, for that town, is
gentlemen's suitings. For style, price, and quality of goods the London
tailor leads the known universe. Wick,' he said--he was terribly in
earnest--'if you have _one hour_ in London, leave your measure!'"
"In that case," said momma, sitting up and ascertaining the condition of
her hair, "you would like me to be with you, love."
Now, if momma doesn't like poppa's clothes, she always gives them away
without telling him. This would be thought arbitrary in England, and I
have certainly known the Senator suddenly reduced to great destitution
through it, but America is a free country, and there is no law to compel
us to see our male relations unbecomingly clad against our will.
"Well, to tell the truth, Augusta," said poppa, "I would. I'd like to
get this measure through by a unanimous vote. It will save complications
afterwards. But are you sure you wouldn't rather lie down?"
Momma replied to the effect that she wouldn't mind his going anywhere
else alone, but this was important. She put her gloves on as she spoke,
and her manner expressed that she was equal to any personal sacrifice
for the end in view.
Colonel Bramley had given the Senator a sartorial address of repute,
and presently the hansom drew up before it, in Piccadilly. We went about
as a family in one hansom for sociability.
"Look here, driver," said poppa through the roof, "have we got there?"
The cabman, in a dramatic and resentful manner, pointed out the number
with his whip.
"There's the address as was given to _me_, sir."
"Well, there's nothing to get mad about," said poppa sternly. "I'm
looking for Marcus Trippit, tailor and outfitter."
"It's all right, sir. All on the brass plite on the door, sir. I can see
it puffickly from 'ere."
The cabman seemed appeased, but his tone was still remonstrative.
We all looked at the door with the brass plate. It was flanked on one
side by the offices of a house agent, on the other by a superior looking
restaurant.
"There isn't the sign of a tailor about the premises," said poppa,
"except his name. I don't like the look of that."
"Perhaps," suggested momma, "it's his private address."
"Well, I guess we don't want to call on Marcus, especially as we've got
no proper introduction. Driver, that isn't Mr. Trippit's place of
business. It's his home."
We all craned up at the hole in the roof at once, like young birds, and
we all distinctly saw the driver smile.
"No, sir, I don't think 'e'd put it up like that that 'e was a tyler,
not on 'is privit residence, sir. I think you'll find the business
premises on the fust or second floor, likely."
"Where's his window?" the Senator demanded. "Where's his display? No, I
don't think Marcus will do for me. I'm not confiding enough. Now, _you_
don't happen to be able to recommend a tailor, do you?"
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