“You’re right, old-timer. The lady ain’t, but she will be. What’s next? Petticoat?” “Those are over here.” “I leave it to you, partner. Something that makes a rustle and a swishing like a light rain on leaves. You know the kind?” “Taffeta will do that.” “Then taffeta it is. Now for the kicks. Something light. Slippers, eh?” “Follow me.” He set out an array of dancing-shoes. “What size?” he asked. “The right size.” The proprietor made a gesture of despair. “There ain’t no woman in the world whose feet are the _right_ size.” “Then we’ll set a record to-night. How big ought they to be for a hundred and twenty pounds?” “That all depends. If the lady is--” “The lady ain’t,” repeated Carrigan wearily. “I’m tellin’ you we’re making her here.” The proprietor wiped his forehead. “Number four?” he suggested vaguely. “Let’s have a look. Make it something like this.” He indicated a pair of bronze slippers, but when the storekeeper produced the pair of number fours, Carrigan took one of them in the palm of his brawny hand and stared at it with something between awe and dismay. “Are these meant for real feet?” “Yep.” Carrigan thought of the mighty brogans he had seen on Jac’s feet. “Do or die,” he said, “she’ll have to wear ’em! What’s next? Stockings?” “Here they are.” “These green ones will do the work. And now--” “Corsets?” He indicated a model bust clad in a formidable corset. Carrigan sighed. “Friend,” he said, “did you ever hear about the days when men wore armor?” “Yes.” “When I’m dancin’ with a girl that wears one of them things, I feel as if I had my arms around a man in armor. Anything else?” A malicious light gleamed in the eyes of the proprietor. “There’s nothing else except these girdles that a drummer palmed off on me. They’re jest elastic, that’s all. They don’t give a girl no figger.” “H-m! But they’re a long way from armor-plate. I’ll take one.” “What size?” “How do they run? Large, small, and medium?” “By inches.” “Make it something extra medium in inches.” “Most of ’em _wish_ they could wear twenty-one.” “Twenty-one it is.” The proprietor grinned. “But if that’s too small--” “Friend, what do you do when your cinch is too small for your hoss?” “Pull.” “Well?” The proprietor added the girdle to the heap in mute surrender. “And now that we’ve got down to the girdle,” he said, “the next thing is--” “Look here, friend,” said Carrigan, “don’t go too far!” “Well?” “Well, fix up the underlining any way you want, but make it the best you’ve got. One thing more. There ain’t enough color in this outfit. Something for her shoulders?” “A scarf. Right here.” Carrigan picked out a filmy, orchid-colored tissue. “Now we’ve reached her face.” The proprietor groaned. “Paint?” “Nope. I don’t want to add anything. I want to make something disappear. Freckles.” The storekeeper grinned. “Vanishing cream and then rice powder. That’s the latest hitch.” CHAPTER III. CINDERELLA.