"Give me that fork. You'll be spoiling your fine
clothes."
"Oh, these don't matter. They're made for this kind of thing."
"Oh, are they? I guess I'll dress in that kind of a rig. What did that
shirt cost? I need one."
"Six dollars a pair; but then it's old."
"And them pants," he pursued; "they cost six dollars, too, didn't
they?"
Howard's face darkened. He saw his brother's purpose. He resented
it. "They cost fifteen dollars, if you want to know, and the shoes
cost six-fifty. This ring on my cravat cost sixty dollars, and the suit
I had on last night cost eighty-five. My suits are made by
Breckstein, on Fifth Avenue and Twentieth Street, if you want to
patronize him," he ended brutally, spurred on by the sneer in his
brother's eyes. "I'll introduce you."
"Good idea," said Grant with a forced, mocking smile. "I need just
such a get up for haying and corn plowing. Singular I never
thought of it. Now my pants cost eighty-five cents, s'penders
fifteen, hat twenty, shoes one-fifty; stockin's I don't bother about."
He had his brother at a disadvantage, and he grew fluent and
caustic as he went on, almost changing places with Howard, who
took the rake out of the boy's hands and followed, raking up the
scatterings.
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