how much of one's shirt showed? It would pass. The coat-shirt not
yet introduced, a man had to slip the old-fashioned kind over his
head, drag it down past his shoulders and poke blindly for the
sleeve openings. Martin was thankful when he felt the collar
buttons in their holes. His salt and pepper suit was of a stiff,
unyielding material, and the first time he had worn it the
creases had vanished never to return. Before putting on his
celluloid collar, he spat on it and smeared it off with the tail
of his shirt. A recalcitrant metal shaper insisted on peeking
from under his lapels, and his ready-made tie with its two grey
satin-covered cardboard wings pushed out of sight, see-sawed,
necessitating frequent adjustments. His brown derby, the rim of
which made almost three quarters of a circle at each side, seemed
to want to get as far as possible from his ears and, at the same
time, remain perched on his head. The yellow shoes looked as
though each had half a billiard ball in the toe, and the entire
tops were perforated with many diverging lines in an attempt for
the decorative. Those were the days of sore feet and corns! Hart
Schaffner and Marx had not yet become rural America's tailor.
Sartorial magicians in Chicago had not yet won over the young men
of the great corn belt, with their snappy lines and style for the
millions. In 1890, when a suit served merely as contrast to a
pair of overalls, the Martin Wades who would clothe themselves
pulled their garments from the piles on long tables. It was for
the next generation to patronize clothiers who kept each suit on
its separate hanger. A moving-picture of the tall,
broad-shouldered fellow, as, with creaking steps, he walked from
the house, might bring a laugh from the young farmers of this
more fastidious day, but Martin was dressed no worse than any of
his neighbors and far better than many. Health, vigor,