"Shall we require one of those?"

"Gentlemen are all wearing them, sir," answered the tailor.

"How much?" queried Henry.

"Well, you gentlemen are a trifle thick, sir, and we'll have to
have them specially made, but I presume we may safely say $14 each,
sir!"

Henry did not even look at me, but lifted the wormwood to his lips
and quaffed it. "Make two," he answered.

The world should not be unsafe for democracy if Wichita and Emporia
could help it!

We went to a show that night with the feeling of guilt and shame
one has who has betrayed his family. That $114 with ten more to
come for brown shoes, flickered in the spot light and babbled on
the lips of the singers. They danced it in the ballet. Each of us
was thinking with guilty horror of how he would break the news of
that uniform bargain to his wife. So we went home tired that first
night, through the grim dark streets of Paris and to our rooms.
And there were those 43rd street uniforms still unwrapped in the
bureau drawer. Henry again demanded a dress rehearsal. He insisted
that as we were going to have to wear them to the front we ought to
know how we looked inside of them. But we were weary and again put
off the dread hour. The next morning we bought our ten dollar brown
shoes, and concluded that there was a vast amount of foolishness
connected with this war.