In a way, these strangers in Fernandon were most remarkable for their attire. With scarcely an exception, the clothes they wore were weird and fantastic samples of sartorial art; various, and nearly all, prevailing freaks of fashion were displayed. With colored shirts, flaring socks, and giddy neckties, they caused all beholders to gasp. They were most amazingly bejeweled and adorned. With difficulty Locke suppressed a smile as his quick eyes surveyed them. Near the head of the broad steps leading up to the veranda sat a somewhat stocky but exceptionally well-built man of uncertain age. He was almost as swarthy as an Indian, and his dark eyes were swift and keen and shrewd. His black hair was graying on the temples. His coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced black-and-white-striped material. His fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored figures. His silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple, and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his head was green. He was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of words into the ear of Bailey Weegman, who made a pretense of not noticing Locke. "Yes, mate," he was saying, "old man Breckenridge was the most painfully inconsiderate batter I ever had the misfortune to pitch against. Smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high balls--they all looked alike to him. Now I have a preference; I prefer a high ball, Scotch and carbonic. But it made no difference to Breck; when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill made a pilgrimage--it journeyed right away to some land distant and remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going. When it came right down to slugging, compared with old Breck your Home-run Bakers and Honus Wagners and Napoleon Lajoies are puny and faded shines. And he always seemed able to make connections when he desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could prevent him from hitting." "Quite a wonder, I must admit!" laughed Weegman, in high amusement. "Rather strange the Big Leagues didn't get hold of such a marvelous batsman, isn't it?" "Oh, he was on the roster of some Class A team at various times, but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and uncharted bushes: 'Charley horse' had him in its invidious grip. A spavined snail could beat Breck making the circuit of the sacks, and cross the pan pulled up. Yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger held the record for home runs in the Tall Grass League. Naturally I had heart failure and Angie Pectoris every time I was compelled to face him on the slab. Likewise, naturally I began meditating with great vigor upon a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy."