In his previous visits to Horsham Manor Jack had, at no little cost, repressed his speech into accord with my teachings, and Jerry was very fond of him.  They fished, swam and sparred by day, and in the evenings Jack told stories of hunting in foreign countries to which Jerry listened wide-eyed.

But now, it seemed, his visit had a purport.  There was just a suggestion of swagger in Jack’s manner at the dinner table where, to Jerry’s surprise, he wore a jacket and a fluted shirt.

At the boy’s comment, Jack inhaled deeply of his cigarette (another operation which Jerry always regarded with a certain awe) and stated the object of his visit, which was nothing less than that of sartorially equipping Jerry for the fray.

“To be well-dressed, my boy,” he said gayly, “is to show the finishing touch of a perfect culture.  Without well-fitting garments no man is complete.  I am going to clothe you, Jerry, from the skin out.  That’s my privilege.  I shall be the framemaker for Roger’s magnum opus.  And not over my dead body shall you wear after December twelfth a tartan-cravat.” (Jerry fingered at the gay bit of ribbon at his neck.) “If you will remember, our friend Ruskin said that the man who wears a tartan-cravat will most surely be damned.”

As you will observe.  Jack Ballard exactly defined sophistication, root and branch.  But his sophistries were always colorful and ornamental and of course Jerry laughed.

“I’ll take your word for it, Uncle Jack,” he said.  “But you know I rather like color.”

“Of course, in a rainbow, my boy.  But in a cravat—­no!  The cravat is the chevron of gentility.  You shall see.  Symphonies in browns and gray-greens!  I’ll make you a heart-breaker.”

“Why do you put such rubbish in his head, Ballard?” I said testily.

“Because he’s got quite enough essential matter there already,” he laughed.  “For ten years you’ve been packing him with facts.  I have a feeling that if one only shook Jerry a little, he would disgorge them all—­dates of battles, maxims, memorabilia of all sorts, a heterogeneous mess.  He’s full to the brim, I tell you, and ready to explode.  Suppose he did!  How would you like to be hit in the midriff by an apothegm of Cicero, or be hamstrung by the subjunctive pluperfect of an irregular French verb?”

Jerry was laughing immoderately, though I admit such blackface pleasantry appealed little to my sense of humor.  But I found myself smiling.  “Surely you don’t expect to avert this catastrophe by providing Jerry with a new cravat?” I urged.

“That is precisely what I do expect,” he said.  “You’ve had your fling at him, Pope.  I’m going to have mine.  Tomorrow a tailor will arrive, also a haberdasher and a bootmaker.  Jerry will be measured from top to toe.  The mountain is coming to Mahomet.”

“Let’s be sure no mouse is born,” I said dryly.

“Six feet two of country mouse,” he roared.  “Oh, Pope, don’t you worry.  We’ll show you a thing or two, won’t we, Jerry?”