At this moment, and our thoughts running thus, we happened to pass
by the window of a very alluring haberdasher's shop. In that window
we saw displayed a number of very brilliant neckties, all rich and
glowing with bright diagonal stripes. The early sunlight fell upon
them and they were brave to behold. And we said to ourself that it
would be a proper thing for one who was connected with the triumphal
onward march of a play that was knocking them cold on the one-night
circuit to flourish a little and show some sign of worldly vanity.
(We were still young, that November, and our mind was still subject
to some harmless frailties.) We entered the shop and bought that
tie, the very same one that struck Pete Corcoran with a palsy when
he saw it the other day. We put it in our pocket and walked back to
the hotel.

Now comes a portion of the narrative that exhibits to the full the
deceits and stratagems of the human being. This tie, which we liked
so much, thinking it the kind of thing that would add a certain dash
and zip to our bearing, was eminently a metropolitan-looking kind of
scarf. No one would think to look at it that it had been bought in
Gloversville. And we said to ourself that if we went quietly back to
the hotel and slipped unobtrusively into the washroom and put on
that tie, no one would know that we had just bought it in
Gloversville, but would think it was a part of our elaborate
wardrobe that we had brought from New York. Very well. (We would not
reveal these shameful subterfuges to any one but Pete Corcoran.) No
sooner said than done; and behold us taking the trolley from
Gloversville to Fonda, with the rest of the company, wearing that
tie that flared and burned in the keen wintry light like a great
banner, like an oriflamme of youthful defiance.