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Which you can take it from me that when I. Bernstein sells a suit of clothes it is shust like he is dealing with his own brother. Qvality, my friendts, qvality! Why, I got anyhow a suit which I might be married in without shame, un'erstan' me." Colin Whitford was of the West himself. He had lived its rough-and-tumble life for years before he made his lucky strike in the Bird Cage.
Unshrinkable. This is a qvality town. If you want the best it costs a little more, but you got anyhow a suit which a man might be married in without shame, understan' me." The Arizonan backed off in apparent alarm. "Say, is this a weddin' garment you're onload'n' on me? Do I have to sashay down a church aisle and promise I do?" Mr. Bernstein explained that this was not obligatory.
"To you, my friendt, I make this garment for only sixty-five dollars." He added another secret detail. "Below wholesale cost." A little devil of mirth lit in Lindsay's eye. "I'd hate to have you rob yoreself like that. And me a perfect stranger to you too." "Qvality, y' understan' me. Which a man must got to live garments like I done to appreciate such a suit. All wool. Every thread of it.
A small man with sharp little eyes and well-defined nose was standing in the doorway. "Might you would want a good suit of qvality clothes, my friendt," he suggested. "You've pegged me right," agreed the Westerner with his ready smile. "Lead me to it." Mr. Bernstein personally conducted his customer to the suit department.
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