It was rather an illustration
of the primitive instinct that is in all of us and that
will out in "war time." Any man worth the name would wear
old breeches all the time if the world would let him.
Any man will wind a polka dot tie round his waist in
preference to wearing patent braces. The makers of the
ties know this. That is why they make the tie four feet
long. And in the same way if any manufacturer of hats
will put on the market an old fedora, with a limp rim
and a mark where the ribbon used to be but is not--a hat
guaranteed to be six years old, well weathered, well
rained on, and certified to have been walked over by a
herd of cattle--that man will make and deserve a fortune.
These at least were the fashions of last May. Alas, where
are they now? The men that wore them have relapsed again
into tailor-made tweeds. They have put on hard new hats.
They are shining their boots again. They are shaving
again, not merely on Saturday night, but every day. They
are sinking back into civilization.
Yet those were bright times and I cannot forbear to linger
on them. Nor the least pleasant feature was our rediscovery
of the morning. My neighbour on the right was always up
at five.
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