the evening--for he
worked only until seven--he had his other preparations: polishing his
sword, cleaning his accouterments.

On an evening a week before the parade would occur, he got out his
boots. He bought always large boots with straight soles, the right not
much different from the left in shape. Thus he managed thriftily to
wear, on his one leg, first one of the pair, then the other. But they
were both worn now, and because of the cost of the new uniform, he could
not buy others.

Armed with the better of the two he visited the cobbler's shop, and
there met with bitter news.

"A patch here, and a new heel, comrade," he said. "With that and a
polishing, it will do well enough for marching."

The usual group was in the shop, mostly young men, a scattering of gray
heads. The advocates of strange doctrines, most of them. Old Adelbert
disapproved of them, regarded them with a sort of contempt.

Now he felt that they smiled behind his back. It was his clothing, he
felt. He shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. He no longer felt ashamed
before them. Already, although the tailor still pressed its seams
and marked upon it with chalk, he was clad in the dignity of the new
uniform.

He turned and nodded to them. "A fine evening," he said. "If this
weather holds, we will have--a good day for the marching." He squinted a
faded eye at the sky outside.

"What marching?"

Old Adelbert turned on the speaker sharply. "Probably you have
forgotten," he said scornfully, "but in a week comes an anniversary
there are many who will remember. The day of a great battle. Perhaps,"
he added, "if you do not know of what I speak, there are some here who
will tell you."

Unexpectedly the crowd laughed.

Old Adelbert flushed a dusky red and drew himself up. "Since when," he
demanded, "does such a speech bring laughter? It was no laughing matter
then."

"It is the way of the old to live in the past," a student said. Then,
imitating old Adelbert's majestic tone: "We, we live in the future.
Eh, comrades?" He turned to the old soldier: "You have not seen the
bulletins?"

"Bulletins?"

"There will be no marching, my friend. The uniform now--that is a pity.
Perhaps the tailor--" His eyes mocked.

"No marching?"

"An order of the Council. It seems that the city is bored by these
ancient-reminders. It is for peace, and would forget wars. And
processions are costly. We grow thrifty. Bands and fireworks cost money,
and money, my hero