"The Limit," I should tell you, is (or was) a waterproof. It is a faithful
record of Edward's artistic activities during the last thirty years, being
decorated all down the front with smears of red, white and green paint.
Here and there it has been repaired with puncture patches and strips of
surgical plaster, but more often it has not. As Edward is incapable of
replacing a button and Aunt Angela refuses to touch the "Limit," he knots
himself into it with odds and ends of string and has to be liberated by his
ally, the cook, with a kitchen knife. Edward calls it his "garden coat,"
and swears he only wears it on dirty jobs, to save his new mackintosh, but
nevertheless he is sincerely attached to the rag, and once attempted to
travel to London to a Royal Society beano in it, and was only frustrated in
the nick of time.

So the oft-threatened "Limit" had been reached at last. I laughed heartily
for a moment, then a sudden cold dread gripped me, and I raced upstairs and
tore open my wardrobe. Gregory, the glory of Gopherville, had gone too!

A word as to Gregory. If you look at a map of Montana and follow a line due
North through from Fort Custer you will not find Gopherville, because a
cyclone removed it some eight years ago. Nine years ago, however, Gregory
and I first met in the "Bon Ton Parisian Clothing Store," in the main (and
only) street of Gopherville, and I secured him for ten dollars cash. He is
a mauve satin waistcoat, embroidered with a chaste design of anchors and
forget-me-nots, subtly suggesting perennial fidelity. The combination of
Gregory and me proved irresistible at all Gopherville's social events.

Wishing to create a favourable atmosphere, I wore Gregory at my first party
in England. I learn that Aunt Angela disclaimed all knowledge of me during
that evening.