An unavoidable round of the shops wiped out the remnant of my savings as a policeman, and brought me down again to the letter of credit that had lain fallow more than a half year. Except for tailor-made suits, the cost of replenishing a wardrobe was startling. Ready-made clothing for men is rare in the cities of the Andes, and it is far more economical to be fitted to order in one of the sastrerías that abound in almost every street,—dingy little rooms, their fronts all doorway, in which sit anemic half-breed youths sewing languidly, yet incessantly, now and then carrying the charcoal-filled “goose” out into the street to blow out the ashes, and as dependent on the passing throng for inspiration as the craftsmen of Damascus. As in the more northern capital, the chief line of demarkation between the gente and the pueblo of Quito is the white collar. Naturally, the tendency is to make it as wide and distinct as possible. I had canvassed the entire city before I found my customary brand of neckwear—at four times its American price—only to discover that the lowest collar in stock was designed for some species of human giraffe.
“You misunderstand me,” I protested, “I did not ask for a cuff.”
“This is a collar, señor,” cried the shopkeeper.
“Something lower, please.”
“But this is a very low collar! It is so low that no one in Quito will wear it, and we are not importing any more of this brand.”
In the matter of shoes, I found at last a Massachusetts product that might have served; but when I had beaten the dealer down to about twice the American price, a seven was found to be the largest size in stock. The merchant seemed on the verge of tears.
“Why, señor,” he gasped, gazing resentfully at the offending member, “there is not a foot in Quito as large as that shoe.”
He did not mean exactly what he said, but it was natural that he should have had in mind only the minority of quiteños who wear shoes. These squeeze their feet into articles of effeminate, toothpick shape for custom’s sake, as they force their necks into collars that come little short of hanging, and have their trousers made sailor-fashion, that their feet may look still more ladylike. One cannot, of course, pose as an aristocrat on the broad hoofs of an Indian. In the end I was forced to submit to botas de hule, an imitation patent-leather shoe made in Guayaquil.
Hays concluded that with a general overhauling he could pass muster until our bundles arrived. But on one point immediate renewal was unavoidable. He paused in the doorway of one of the little sewing dens to ask:
“Can you make me a pair of trousers by Saturday night?”