Every article of clothing I wore, from my underwear out, was of the very best. That it was not paid for was nobody's business except mine & my tailor's & my haberdasher's. Every morning I dressed myself in an entirely new outfit, & walked the same street, at precisely the same hour. That hour ''happened'' to be the time when a certain wealthy publisher usually walked down the same street, on his way to lunch. I made it my business to speak to him each day, and occasionally I would stop for a minute's chat with him. After this daily meeting had been going on for about a week I met this publisher one day, but decided I would see if he would let me get by without speaking. Watching him from under my eyelashes I looked straight ahead, & started to pass him when he stopped & motioned me over to the edge of the sidewalk, placed his hand on my shoulder, looked me over from head to foot, & said: ''You look damned prosperous for a man who has just laid aside a uniform. Who makes your clothes?'