The upshot of this conversation was that on the following day I went to London, wearing my old top-hat, and called at Messrs. Hutchfield's, the famous hatters. It is not a very large shop, but it is very high, and something like a million white hat-boxes, each presumably containing a hat, are stacked in gleaming tiers from floor to ceiling. The higher ones are fetched down by means of a long pole provided at one end with a sort of inverted hook. It is a most dexterous and pleasing trick, only to be attempted by an old hand. An inexperienced practitioner would certainly bring down an avalanche of hat-boxes on the heads of the customers. On one side of the room there is a patent stove in which several irons were heating, not for torture, but for the improvement of hats. Several aproned attendants were bustling about, and one or two customers with bare heads were eyeing one another with an exaggerated air of haughty nonchalance, as who should say, "Observe, we do not wear white aprons. We do not belong to the shop. We are genuine customers. We are waiting for our hats."
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning, Sir," said one of the attendants; "what would you be requiring to-day?"
"I think," I said, "it was a hat. Yes, I'm sure it was. A top-hat, you know—one of your best."
"Pardon me, Sir." With a graceful and airy movement he whisked off my old hat and took its measure in length and breadth.
"You mustn't draw any inference from the lining," I said. "I'm not really as poor as all that. I've meant to have it re-lined several times, but somehow I never brought it off. Still, it's been a good hat."
"Yes, Sir," he said.
"Could it be——"
"Oh, yes, Sir, we could re-line it for you and make it look almost as good as new."
"Splendid!" I cried. "Then I shan't want a new one, shall I?"