He glanced cautiously at an elderly gentleman who was stirring up a box of ties, then, lowering his voice another semitone, added, “The mills are now being used exclusively for Government work.”  He insinuated the death-sentence effect very cleverly, and at that moment, coming to his support, as it were, the old gentleman tottered up, seized upon two garments and carried them off from under my very fingers.  As he went out a middle-aged lady entered and made straight for the residue upon the counter.  A feeling of panic came upon me.  “Right you are,” I exclaimed hurriedly, “I’ll take the lot.”  As a matter of fact she only wanted a pair of gloves for her nephew in France.

A few days later, still having the wool shortage in mind, I approached my hosier and haberdasher on the subject of shirts.  For a second or two he looked thoughtfully at the toe of his boot.  Then coming suddenly to a decision he disappeared stealthily into the back premises, from which he presently emerged carrying a large bale of flannel, which he cast caber-wise upon the counter.

“There,” he said triumphantly, “I don’t suppose there’s another piece of flannel like that in the country.”  He fingered it with an expert touch.

“You don’t say so,” I said as I rubbed it reverently between my finger and thumb, just to show that he wasn’t the only one who could do it.

“I’m afraid it’s only too true,” he confessed, “and I may add that, after we have sold out our present stocks, flannel of any kind will be absolutely unobtainable.”

“None at all?” I asked, horror-struck at the vision of my public life in 1920—­a bow cravat over a double-width vestum.

He shook his head and smiled wisely.

I am instinctively against hoarding, but I knew that if I did not buy it Jones would, and then some fine day, when nobody else had a shirt left, he would swagger about and make my life intolerable.  This decided me and I bought the piece.

A few days later it occurred to me that it might be advisable to lay down some socks.  My idea was in perfect unison with that of my hosier and haberdasher.  Socks were going to be unprocurable in a few months.  I patted myself on the back and bought up the 1916 vintage of Llama-Llama footwear.  The following week thirty-seven shirts arrived and I had to buy a new chest-of-drawers.

This, as I have stated before, was about a year ago.  Yesterday I paid my hosier and haberdasher another visit.  If all the bone factories had not been too exclusively engaged, etc., etc., I wished to buy a collar stud.  There was an elderly man standing in the shop.  He was quite alone, contemplating a mountain of garments.  There were little vesties, double-width vestums, and ordinary woollen affairs.

You could have knocked me over with a dress-sock.

And where was my hosier and haberdasher?  Had the stranger—­just awakened to the value of his possessions—­entered the shop and suddenly cast all this treasure upon the counter?  I imagined the shock of this procedure on a man like my hosier and haberdasher, whose heart was perhaps a trifle woolly.  Had he collapsed?  I glanced surreptitiously behind a parapet of clocked socks.