The shop was full of the Cohen family, sombre-eyed, smileless men with purposeful expressions; and two of these, instantly descending upon Wallace Chesney like leopards, began in swift silence to thrust him into a suit of yellow tweed. Having worked the coat over his shoulders with a shoe-horn, they stood back to watch the effect. “A beautiful fit,” announced Isidore Cohen. “A little snug under the arms,” said his brother Irving. “But that’ll give.” “The warmth of the body will make it give,” said Isidore. “Or maybe you’ll lose weight in the summer,” said Irving. Wallace, when he had struggled out of the coat and was able to breathe, said that he had come in to buy a putter. Isidore thereupon sold him the putter, a dog collar, and a set of studs, and Irving sold him a fireman’s helmet: and he was about to leave when their elder brother Lou, who had just finished fitting out another customer, who had come in to buy a cap, with two pairs of trousers and a miniature aquarium for keeping newts in, saw that business was in progress and strolled up. His fathomless eye rested on Wallace, who was toying feebly with the putter. “You play golf?” asked Lou. “Then looka here!” He dived into an alleyway of dead clothing, dug for a moment, and emerged with something at the sight of which Wallace Chesney, hardened golfer that he was, blenched and threw up an arm defensively. “No, no!” he cried. The object which Lou Cohen was waving insinuatingly before his eyes was a pair of those golfing breeches which are technically known as Plus Fours. A player of two years’ standing, Wallace Chesney was not unfamiliar with Plus Fours--all the club cracks wore them--but he had never seen Plus Fours like these. What might be termed the main _motif_ of the fabric was a curious vivid pink, and with this to work on the architect had let his imagination run free, and had produced so much variety in the way of chessboard squares of white, yellow, violet, and green that the eye swam as it looked upon them. “These were made to measure for Sandy McHoots, the Open Champion,” said Lou, stroking the left leg lovingly. “But he sent ’em back for some reason or other.” “Perhaps they frightened the children,” said Wallace, recollecting having heard that Mr. McHoots was a married man. “They’ll fit you nice,” said Lou. “Sure they’ll fit him nice,” said Isidore, warmly. “Why, just take a look at yourself in the glass,” said Irving, “and see if they don’t fit you nice.” And, as one who wakes from a trance, Wallace discovered that his lower limbs were now encased in the prismatic garment. At what point in the proceedings the brethren had slipped them on him, he could not have said. But he was undeniably in.