“But certainly, sir; I understand perfectly.  This coat here is what the working people are buying; sold a dozen suits myself this week to some of the mill workers—­very natty, sir, and only sixty-five dollars.  If you’ll look closely at the workers about town you’ll see the same suits—­right dressy, you’ll notice.  I’m afraid the other sort of thing has gone a little out of style; in fact, I don’t believe you’ll be able to find a suit such as you describe.  They’re not being made.  Workers are buying this sort of garment.”  He picked up the snappy belted coat and fondled its nap affectionately.  “Of course, for a fancy-dress party——­”

“No, no, no!  I tell you it isn’t a masquerade!”

The salesman seemed at a loss for further suggestions.  The customer’s eye lighted upon a pile of coats farther down the line.

“What are those?”

“Those?  Corduroy, sir.  Splendid garments—­suitable for the woods, camping, hunting, fishing.  We’re well stocked with hunting equipment.  Will you look at them?”

“I suppose so,” said the customer, desperately.

* * * * *

Late that afternoon the three older Whipples, on the piazza of the Whipple New Place, painfully discussed the scene of the previous evening.  It was felt by two of them that some tragic event impended.  Sharon alone was cheerful.  From time to time he admonished the other two to sit tight.

“He’ll tell you you ain’t any longer a father of his, or a grandfather, either, but sit tight!”

He had said this when Merle appeared before them as a car drew up to the door.  There was an immediate sensation from which even Sharon was not immune.  For Merle was garbed in corduroy, and the bagging trousers were stuffed into the tops of heavy, high-laced boots.  The coat was belted but loose fitting.  The exposed shirt was of brown flannel, and the gray felt hat was low-crowned and broad of brim.  The hat was firmly set on the wearer’s head, and about his neck was a wreath of colour—­a knotted handkerchief of flaming scarlet.

The three men stared at him in silent stupefaction.  He seemed about to pass them on his way to the waiting car, but then paused and confronted them, his head back.  He laughed his bitter laugh.

“Does it seem strange to see me in the dress of a common workingman?” he demanded.

“Dress of a what?” demanded Sharon Whipple.  The other ignored this.

“You have consigned me to the ranks,” he continued, chiefly to Harvey D.  “I must work with my hands for the simple fare that my comrades are able to gain with their own toil.  I must dress as one of them.  It’s absurdly simple.”

“My!” exclaimed Gideon.

Harvey D. was suffering profoundly, but all at once his eyes flashed with alarm.

“Haven’t those boots nails in them?” he suddenly demanded.

“I dare say they have.”

“And you’ve been going across the hardwood floors?” demanded Harvey D. again.