He gathered the garments, picked up the shoes, put the hat on top of the pile on his arm, and went farther into the woods, following the course of a tiny stream of water.  This stream led him to a pool.  It was tree-bordered, it was a center gem in a dim alcove in the forest, it was as secret as a private chamber.  The pool was glassy, for the winds were still in the tree-tops.

The man laid down his burden.  He stripped off his own well-worn coat and shirt, and secured a razor and stick of soap from the scattered articles he dumped from the coat pocket.  He kneeled on the brink of the pool, leaned over and shaved himself carefully, using the glassy surface as a mirror.  Then he put off his other clothing, the mean garments of a vagrant, and plunged into the pool.

When he came forth from the water and dried himself with his discarded shirt, he revealed himself to the birds whom his splashings had attracted to the branches above the pool.  If the birds’ twitterings were comments on his appearance, they must have been admiring comments.  The man’s skin was white and he was lithe and tense and muscular.  Breeding showed in him as it shows in the muscles and conformation of a race-horse.  When he was dried he threw down the makeshift towel and combed his shock of brown hair with his fingers.  Now that the bristle of beard was off his face he looked younger.

From the pile of clothing he selected his outfit, garment by garment.  The jovial humor of the judge had provided complete equipment for a man.  In the breast pockets of the frock-coat there were a clean collar, a necktie, and a freshly laundered handkerchief.

By the time he had finished his dressing the pool was still and glassy once more.  He flirted out the handkerchief, holding it by one corner, and swept the soft fabric around and around the crown of the black hat.

He carefully set the hat on his head and leaned over the pool and took an interested peep at himself.

“You are a fool in this matter,” he informed the reflection.  “And I wonder why you are determined to persist in the folly.  The man Chick’s tin suit cannot bring as much trouble to him as this garb of respectability may bring to you.  For no man can step up to that poor Quaker and touch his shoulder and say—­”

He broke off.  He began to search through his discarded garments and to stow his few possessions into the pockets of his new attire.

“All folly!” ran his thoughts.  “I am consumed with it all of a sudden.  I have ranted to a tramp.  Now I rant at myself.  I am sloughing the rags that have protected me.  All folly!”

His searching fingers, groping to the deepest corner of a pocket, found the crumbling fragments of a dried rose.  He narrowed his eyes and surveyed it as it lay in his palm, and then made as if to toss it into the pool.  But he checked the gesture.  He set his chin in his hands and communed aloud with himself after the fashion of those who hold aloof from mankind: