"Made in England"

STANLEY JONES

MY VANITY, I believe, is not inordinate for a man. But I do enjoy the feel and the look of good clothing. Especially, I had cherished a sneaking admiration for. the well-dressed Englishman. I had, in my secret heart, determined that some day I should have a suit made by the most royal of all royal tailors in London. This looked like the day.

Being a visitor, I cast about the lobby for the best-dressed man to approach for information. The clerk behind the desk finally achieved this distinction. He simply beggared description. All I can truthfully say is that he was exquisite. I prostrated myself on his onyx altar with a double humility. First, because he was a hotel clerk, and secondly because he was an English hotel clerk.

"Whom," said I, ingratiatingly, "would you name as the finest tailor in the city?"

Instantly the clerkish hauteur melted. I experienced a warm inward glow at having stumbled upon the onlypossible human joint in his armor.

"Houghton-Stoughton," he said, so suddenly that I recoiled with a start. Nodding his sleek head, lie readjusted the gardenia in his exquisite morning coat. Then, leaning confidentially toward my palpitating ear, he whispered, "Tailor to H. R. H."

"Not really?" I whispered back. "Fact, and his father's father before 'im."

"Do you suppose I could get an appointment with Mr.—er, write it down, will you, please?"

He did so, with a gold pencil. My heart swelled with pride as I gazed upon it. Here was a name! H. R. H., too. Lord, how the boys in the office would cluster round. I rolled the sonorous syllables over my tongue. "Houghton-Stoughton."

Raising my eyes, I caught an injured expression on his countenance. " 'Hutton Stutton', sir," he said, "not * Howton-Stowton'."

My brief sojourn in the tight little isle had been productive of many pleasant reproofs. I could now take them with a smile. In fact, I resented it a bit when they were not forthcoming. They were part of the trip, and I like to get my due.

"Thank you," I rejoined humbly, "and shall I just drop down on him?"

"Yes," he nodded, "just pop in on him."

That made two reproofs in five minutes. It looked like a big day.

This, thought I to myself, cannot be the place. Yet the number and the street corresponded to my slip of paper. T wo narrow windows, opaque with hallowed dust, flanked a weatherbeaten door. The only thing that connoted any possible connection with either tailoring or royalty was a dingy coat of arms embedded in the dust over the entrance. But the butcher down the street had one. So had the leading hatters, and tobacconists, and confecfectioners. In fact, any one who had ever sold anything to a sovereign had the right to hang the royal seal over his place of business, it seemed. The place looked dubious, still I somehow felt that it was worth a try.

As I opened the door, a bell jangled somewhere in the rear of the establishment. Stumbling down four short steps, I found myself in a long, narrow room. At the farther end there jutted out a series of small closets, equipped with flyspecked mirrors. Stretching the length of the room was a long, wide table of some dark wood, worn shiny.

"Good day, sir," said a high voice to my left, as I stood blinking. "Rather nice out, eh?"

The owner of the voice was tall, and slightly stooped, with thin grey hair and an inquisitive little moustache. His nice grey eyes were set rather wide apart in a thin, greyhoundy face. Striped grey trousers lent distinguished assistance to the general grey tone of things. Clearly, here was a super-tailor, one of a race apart.

"Yes, not bad at all," I assented, shaking the diamond globules of mist from my hat. Tiny puffs of dust exploded as each drop struck the floor. Tossing my hat to the table, I looked about for samples of cloth.

"Deuced fortunate we are to draw such a day for the race, eh?" remarked the pleasant fellow, rocking back and forth on his long, thin shoes. What race, I wondered. Then, I recalled the fact that no Englishman relishes waiting on a customer until more or less personal relations, so to speak, have been established.

Forty-five minutes later I hinted that I should like to look at some fabrics, if Mr. Hutton-Stutton cared to show—my friend held up his fine hand with a deprecating smile.

"Klingley-Carstairs," he said. He lowered his voice, "Mr. HoughtonStoughton is up attending his grace at Greeswick Towers, Kinchester, Oldhamshire."

"Not his grace?" I inquired, raising my eyebrows.

"Quite, oh, quite," nodded Mr. Klingley-Carstairs, smiling. "We specialize in rather nice things for titles." He rubbed his hands in pleasant reminiscence of the many, many nice things that titled ones had achieved through the connection.

"Cadger," called Mr. KlingleyCarstairs, and a pale youth, mostly legs, popped in from a side door. Mr. Klingley-Carstairs flicked an elegant forefinger at the long wooden cabinets lining the walls. Young Cadger leaped at them. Down came bolt after bolt. Worsteds, tweeds, homespuns, serges, a veritable cascade of fabrics, in every conceivable shade and pattern. Mr. K-C received each bolt and flung it scornfully on the long table, ruffling out some eight or ten feet from the ends for my inspection.

"The Earl of Crossley rather fancied this one," he would say, draping a rich blue worsted across his forearm. Or, "We did a nice shooting suit from this bit for Withington-Bleek."

My admiring "Ohs and Ahs" finally gave out. The pile of cloths had now mounted so high that we had to shout at one another round the corners. And I liked them all. At last, I took pity on the game but weary Cadger. Catching hold of a flying grey overlaid, I shouted:

(Continued on page 134)

(Continued, from page 132)

"This one'll do, I guess."

"Splendid, perfectly splendid," approved Mr. K-C, rubbing it lovingly between his educated fingers. He laid the bolt aside on a chair.

"Now," he remarked, "that's number one. It will do for knockabout wear, especially of a weekend. What else, sir? "

I was a bit taken back. For I had gone so far as to picture myself striding to business in the grey overplaid, and even presenting myself at informal gatherings, some of which might fall in the middle of the week. But this I lacked courage to declare. Instead, I took craven refuge behind the statement that my present wardrobe was suitable quite for every occasion, from a crossword puzzle suit to a stag-hunting outfit. Mr. K-C was hard hit, but he rallied.

"Jarvis!" called he and a lordly but nearsighted gentleman entered, tape in hand. He surveyed my somewhat slatlike physique with the subdued animosity peculiar to tailors.

Managing a grim smile, however, lie escorted me to a small platform between the fitting closets.

"Now, sir," he said, and the tape curled and stretched about me for an interminable period. When he finally rose and dusted the lordly kneecaps, Mr. Klingley-Carstairs had covered six pages of his ample notebook with my specifications. I took my departure with the rather awesome thought that here was a man, who knew more about me than either my mother, or my wife!

Two weeks later I concluded my business and returned to London. With what joy did I burrow through the cheery morning mist, thick as cotton batting. Down the four short steps, and into the reserved presence of Mr. Klingley-Carstairs himself. His broad back was towards me. He was squatting in adoration before the riding breeches of a spidery little man.

"That left knee is quite the best that we have ever done, sir. Quite!"

The little man's frozen blue eyes permitted a thawing beam to enter and warm the heart of Mr. KlingleyCarstairs.

"Very good," he snapped, and stared fiercely at his bandy little legs. I thought so, too. Anything that could be made to fit a pair of croquet wickets deserved unstinted praise.

Mr. K-C greeted me warmly as the little man strutted into a fitting room.

"His Honour, Lieutenant-Colonel Rivington-Poutt," he whispered, splattering me with hyphens. I expressed incredulous delight, and we sat down to the serious business of a conversation. Sometime, in the course of the morning, I found myself in a fitting room, alone with my suit.

Of course, it had that frazzled newborn-chickeny look to it yet. Pinfeather bastings zigzagged all over it. Stiff linen linings showed their edges here and there. But even in the first stage, there was something about it that made me wonder if I could ever carry a Houghton-Stoughton suit as it simply had to be carried. Well, why not, I asked myself defiantly? True, my shoulders were not so wide that I had to enter an average door sideways, and there was that gently rounded protuberance nestling so cozily beneath my beltbuckle—"that goldfish glove," my wife called it jeeringly. But my legs were good, only the faintest suggestion of a knock there, and the Lord knows that that was infinitely preferable to legs like Lieutenant-Colonel PilkingtonPlount's, or whatever his name was! All in all, not bad, I thought. Nothing heroic, of course, but sound, sound. A good average physique.

Gravely grouped about me, on the little platform, were what I presumed to be the four best tailors in the United Kingdom. One concerned himself with the coat, one with the vest, one with the trousers, while a fourth stood off at a respectful distance and conferred with Mr. Kingley-Carstairs on the doings of the other three.

"I think these trousers are a bit high," I ventured. "My belt will constrict my chest breathing."

The trouser man smiled indulgently.

"Bryces," he said, succinctly. And again, "Bryces."

"Oh," said I. There was nothing else I could say.

Number Four, the overseer, whispered long over the set of the shoulders with the coat expert. Once or twice I ventured to inject what I regarded as an exceedingly helpful suggestion. But they merely smiled politely, and murmured, "Oh, quite,sir, quite" and resumed where they had left off. I felt as though I were carryinga brick balanced on the extremity of each clavicle.

Along about noon we had one final subdued mass meeting, in which I was an interested if inaudible spectator. Then the four knights of the needle bowed low, assured me of their undying fealty, and backed from the room, each guarding his special section of my armour.

Mr. Klingley-Carstairs tendered me a costly cigar, and held a match for it.

"Now, sir," he said, heartily, "you will have a garment that you may well be proud of!"

Personally, I didn't think the one I had on was such a mealsack—I certainly had paid enough for it—but perhaps he intended no allusions.

"Are you sure those trousers won't be too baggy?" I asked anxiously. He gave me a reassuring smile.

"Benson cut them, sir," he said, not unkindly, and gazed out of the window. That,I reflected, wascertainly that

Later in the week I returned. There were several well-groomed men lounging about in the easy chairs. Their appearance gave me new courage. They were inches taller than I, to be sure, and were of the broad-shouldered, horsey school, I should say. Still, a good tailor can work wonders.

Mr. Klingley-Carstairs brought out the suit. To my surprise, it was all wrapped in a box, and tied. There was even a little wooden handle hooked on to the cord, for ease in carrying.

Now, I am not sniffish, or even particularly suspicious. But I have always had a final try-on before I take a suit. I believe in the principle of the thing. At first, when I proposed the idea, he thought I was twitting. He laughed gaily.

(Continued on page 140)

(Continued from page 134)

"Really," he protested, chuckling, "that's splendid, quite."

But I didn't think so, and after some good-natured bantering, he yielded gracefully. Exceedingly self-conscious before the nonchalance of the adjacent demigods, I stumbled to the platform. Benson and Jenson were summoned, the shock of the untoward proceeding evident on their pudgy faces. They whispered as they entered.

I scarcely recognized myself in the ancient, flyspecked mirrors. Those herculean shoulders, I knew, would excite keen suspicion on the part of the customs men. I could picture them probing, layer on layer. Worst of all, the tapering effect to which they should have contributed was simply not there. It was merely a very tight little coat. My hands out of the sleeves, and as for the trousers—well, picture two grey stove-pipes rattling around a pair of broomsticks.

"Lord, do you like this outfit?" I demanded of Mr. Klingley-Carstairs. My air-castle slowly exploded, tower by tower. The dust, ethereal as it was, got into my eyes, producing a suspicious moisture. Only my sturdy Americanism restrained the bitter tears.

"And why not, my dear man?" objected Mr. Klingley-Carstairs, with a "what-would-you?" gesture of his fine hands. The four knights eyed me with polite curiosity, tinctured with an injured air. They looked as though they, too, were about to break down and weep. I struck once more.

"You mean that you are thoroughly satisfied for me to appear in this, in public, as representative of the finest work of Houghton-Stoughton?"

"Most assuredly," responded Mr. Klingley-Carstairs with an earnestness that no one could doubt. The quartet strove to fathom my thought processes, furrowing their inadequate brows. Even the demigods in the offing allowed themselves a few asides.

"Houghton-Stoughton," explained Mr. Klingley-Carstairs in a kindly tone, "has had the honour to clothe H. R. H. the nobility, and—"

"Yes, yes," I said, in a strangled voice, "I know. Just wrap it up and I'll take it along, will you?

A week later I strode down the gangplank and stepped into the arms of Mary Olive, my peerless consort.

"My," she exclaimed, after the greetings incident to arrival, "take off that topcoat and let's see that lovely English suit!"

"Not here," I protested, clutching the coat collar closely. "Wait till we get home—I had to wear it off the boat, so's not to pay duty."

"I'll bet it's a peach," she enthused. "I adore English clothes for men!"

"Yes," I assented, "but this one is frightfully wrinkled, from being packed. I'm going to hang it up in that dark closet in the attic till they shake out, may I dear?"

She nodded brightly, and that is just what I did with it. Two years have passed, and, quite likely, they may be out by now. Quite.