Meanwhile I stand before them watching the varying expressions and wondering if there is any prospect of obtaining my desire. At last one man says hesitatingly that he has an old suit at home that he no longer wears, and if we will accompany him to his house, a few doors away, he will show it to us. We turn and follow him, and a score or more of the people follow us. What must an old suit look like in this thrifty community where the men and women never discard anything until it is utterly hopeless as regards service?
A suit which one of these is willing to dispose of must indeed be a peculiar object. I wonder if it has that "ancient and fish-like smell," described by Shakespeare. The fates forbid! Perhaps it is a relic of a beloved father or grandfather, handed down as a family heirloom. We enter the house, still surrounded by curious spectators, and our obliging friend takes from a closet a carefully-wrapped bundle, which upon being opened discloses a worn and aged suit: unfortunately its age does not add to its beauty or value as in the cases of old masterpieces in art, as a painting by Murillo or Rembrandt. The clothes are old, dirty, and faded, and only fit for the receptacle of the ragman, but they do not fail to serve their purpose, for while this young athlete holds them out, with an expression of pride and pleasure, a sudden thought fills me with hope. The suit which this young man wears is of the highest type of the Volendam fashion, and is quite new. The flannel blouse with its gay undervest showing at the chest, and the baggy brown velveteen trousers form an ideal specimen of the costume of these people. I must have this suit. No other will answer my purpose. Without preliminaries, I boldly propose to him to sell me the suit he wears, and put on the old one until he can procure another. His countenance falls, and with a look of positive fear, he draws back, shaking his head and repeating: "Nee. Nee. Nee."
Then he moves farther away, as though in terror lest I then and there strip him of his garments. He cannot sell the suit, he says, especially as the wedding festivities of one of his neighbors are so soon to take place. In a corner of the room, quietly smoking a clay pipe, sits the old father, watching without a word the little drama taking place before him. As the boy reiterates his refusal, the man talks to him in expostulatory tones, and as we learn, says: "The gentleman from America is a good man. Let him have the suit: you shall have another." At this advice the son, though looking rather sulky, yields, and withdrawing to the adjoining room, exchanges the suit he wears for the old one, and returns with the desire of my heart rolled up and wrapped in a clean paper. The evidence of good will on the part of the parent, and the obedience of the son charm me even more than the possession of the coveted garments. The boy is a noble lad. As we are about leaving, I suddenly espy the silver coin buttons which are such an ornament to the dress, and which are considered a mark of distinction, when worn by old or young. They are rare and valuable decorations, being buttons made of coins, and held together by a link, as our sleeve-buttons. They are worn in the bands of the trousers and shirts, serving the purpose of suspenders.