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Updated: June 22, 2025
For a moment he stood poised lightly, consciously, his cane and gloves in one hand, and his soft felt hat turned gracefully across the other. On his ankles were immaculate white spats, and in his buttonhole blossomed the inevitable rose. "Quinby Graham!" he cried in accents of rapture. "My Cassius's beloved Quin! My beloved Quin! What happy fortune blew you hither? But no matter.
Her knee did touch the bank, and the skirt of her gray sports-suit showed a smear of yellow earth. In less than two miles the racing motor had used up so much water that she had to make four trips to the creek before she had filled the radiator. When she had climbed back on the running-board she glared down at spats and shoes turned into gray lumps. She was not tearful. She was angry. "Idiot!
She remembered her wanderings and her lying down to sleep. She wondered who had taken her hat off for her. She looked about for somebody to ask questions of. There was nobody to be seen. There were a few housetops peering over the horizon at her. English sparrows were jumping here and there, engaged in their everlasting spats, but she could not ask them.
Juve drove to the music hall and, showing his card, questioned the officials. "I'm looking for a fat little man, probably slightly drunk, foreign accent, wears a brown coat, tight trousers, white spats, and is plastered all over with decorations." "I saw him," cried one of the ushers. "I checked his overcoat and noticed the decorations. He left some time ago." "Confound it!" muttered Juve.
"'Then this lady, I says to Andy, 'moves against the authorities at Washington with her baggage and munitions, consisting of five dozen indiscriminating letters written to her by a member of the Cabinet when she was 15; a letter of introduction from King Leopold to the Smithsonian Institution, and a pink silk costume with canary colored spats. "'Well and then what? I goes.
Through this business of skyrockets and crescendos and hobgoblins M. Coini stands out like a lighthouse in a cubist storm. However bewildering the plot, however humpty-dumpty the music, M. Coini is intelligible drama. His brisk little figure in its pressed pants, spats and fedora, bounces around amid the apoplectic disturbances like some busybody Alice in an operatic Wonderland. The opus mounts.
They were already busy throwing the last articles out of the wagon, settling in. Barefoot, cold, hungry, until the last few minutes, they were Forrest's indomitable rear guard, riding between brisk spats with the enemy. Kirby tested the edge of a cracker between his teeth as they trotted on in search for another wagon to turn over to the infantry.
He saw a little, round, merry-looking, bald-headed gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles, an enormous silk-hat, broad cloth frock-coat suit, patent boots with grey spats on them, and a general air of prosperity and good nature that impressed itself on even the most casual observer. "Is that Frank O'Connell?" cried the little man.
How does the consummate realism of the cheap photographer show its babies of yester-year, clothed now in the raiment of mature years and simple honours? The little child in costume performing a cute dance. The coloured beau, a heavy swell, in spats and a van Bibber overcoat. The youthful swains posed beside that indestructible stage property of the popular photographer, the artificial tree stump.
Some time passed before the key turned in the inner door, and there was still a long wait before the bolts in the storm doors shot back and Wade's face appeared. He had not had the time to remove the necktie and spats, but the rest of his finery had been replaced by the humble togs of service—long service, you would say at a glance.
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