ON A TOP-HAT


A few days ago I went to a christening to make vows on behalf of the
offspring of a gallant young officer now at the front. I conceived that the
fitting thing on such an occasion was to wear a silk hat, and accordingly I
took out the article, warmed it before the fire, and rubbed it with a hat
pad until it was nice and shiny, put it on my head, and set out for the
church. But I soon regretted the choice. It had no support from any one
else present, and when later I got out of the Tube and walked down the
Strand I found that I was a conspicuous person, which, above all things, I
hate to be. My hat, I saw, was observed. Eyes were turned towards me with
that mild curiosity with which one remarks any innocent oddity or vanity of
the streets.

I became self-conscious and looked around for companionship, but as my eye
travelled along the crowded pavement I could see nothing but bowlers and
trilbys and occasional straws. "Ah, here at last," said I, "is one coming."
But a nearer view only completed my discomfiture, for it was one of those
greasy-shiny hats which go with frayed trousers and broken boots, and which
are the symbol of "better days," of hopes that are dead, and "drinks" that
dally, of a social status that has gone and of a suburban villa that has
shrunk to a cubicle in a Rowton lodging-house. I looked at greasy-hat and
greasy-hat looked at me, and in that momentary glance of fellowship we
agreed that we were "out of it."