"He wants to wear it to-night; they're going into the city on the five-fifty train. Mrs. Busher telephoned that she'd wait in until you brought it."
Well, if he had to deliver it, the quicker the better. "Which one?" he asked. He was impatient to be gone.
"The tailor at the corner has it. Coat had to be pressed and the trousers shortened. He won't hold you up. He promised it for three o'clock."
Bert rode to the corner, left his wheel propped by one pedal against the curbstone, and bolted into the shop.
"You got a suit here for Mr. Quinby," he announced.
The tailor, working in his shirt sleeves, with a tape measure end falling over each shoulder, had a mild eye and an unhurried manner. "Working on it now," he said. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"
Bert groaned. A clock, ticking noisily on the wall, said twenty minutes past three. The game was to start at half-past. Of course, there was usually some delay. . . .
"I'm in a terrible hurry," he said. "Got to get back to the school. Rush it, won't you?"
"Sure, sure. Why didn't somebody say this was a rush job?"
"It was marked for three o'clock."
"It isn't much after three. Don't crowd me
