"Tief wie das Meer soll deine Liebe sein," hummed the editor in the cottage.
His song had taken on a reflective tone
as that of one who cons a problem, or musically ponders which card to
play. He was kneeling before an old trunk in his bedchamber. From one
compartment he took a neatly folded pair of duck trousers and a light-gray
tweed coat; from another, a straw hat with a ribbon of bright colors. They
had lain in the trunk a long time undisturbed; and he examined them
musingly. He shook the coat and brushed it; then he laid the garments upon
his bed, and proceeded to shave himself carefully, after which he donned
the white trousers, the gray coat, and, rummaging in the trunk again,
found a gay pink cravat, which he fastened about his tall collar (also a
resurrection from the trunk) with a pearl pin. After that he had a long,
solemn time arranging his hair with a pair of brushes. When at last he was
suited, and his dressing completed, he sallied forth to breakfast.
Xenophon stared after him as he went out of the gate whistling heartily.
The old darky lifted his hands, palms outward.
"Lan' name, who dat!" he exclaimed aloud. "Who dat in dem pan-jingeries?
He jine' de circus?" His hands fell upon his knees, and he got to his feet
pneumatically, shaking his head with foreboding. "Honey, honey, hit' baid
luck, baid luck sing 'fo' breakfus. Trouble 'fo' de day be done. Trouble,
honey, gre't trouble. Baid luck, baid luck!"
Along the Square the passing of the editor in his cool equipment evoked
some gasps of astonishment; and Mr. Tibbs and his sister rushed from the
postoffice to stare after him.
"He looks just beautiful, Solomon," said Miss Tibbs.
"But what's the name for them kind of clothes?" inquired her brother.
"'Seems to me there's a special way of callin' 'em. 'Seems as if I see a
picture of 'em, somewheres. Wasn't it on the cover of that there long-
tennis box we bought and put in the window, and the country people thought
it was a seining outfit?"
"It was a game, the catalogue said," observed Miss Selina. "Wasn't it?"
"It was a mighty pore investment," the postmaster answered.
As Harkless approached the hotel, a decrepit old man, in a vast straw hat
and a linen duster much too large for him, came haltingly forward to meet
him. He was Widow-Woman Wimby's husband. And, as did every one else, he
spoke of his wife by the name of her former martial companion.