His silver-buttoned blue coat, high-waisted and cunningly rolled of
collar, was a sartorial triumph; his black stockinette pantaloons,
close-fitting from hip to ankle and there looped and buttoned,
accentuated muscled calf and virile thigh in a manner somewhat
disconcerting; his snowy waistcoat was of an original fashion and cut,
and his cravat, folded and caressed into being by Peterby's fingers,
was an elaborate masterpiece, a matchless creation never before seen
upon the town. Barnabas had become a dandy, from the crown of his
curly head to his silk stockings and polished shoes, and, upon the
whole, was not ill-pleased with himself.
"But they're--dangerously tight, aren't they, Peterby?" he inquired
suddenly, speaking his thought aloud.
"Tight, sir!" repeated Mr. Barry, the tailor, reproachfully, and
shaking his gentleman-like head, "impossible, sir,--with such a leg
inside 'em."
"Tight, sir?" exclaimed Peterby, from where he knelt upon the floor,
having just finished looping and buttoning the garments in question,
"indeed, sir, since you mention it, I almost fear they are a trifle
too--roomy. Can you raise your bent knee, sir?"
"Only with an effort, John.
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