The next that he rootled at the bottom of a deep drawer and extracted a most disreputable tweed suit.
It had once been what I believe is called a Lovat mixture, but was now a nondescript sub-fusc, with bright patches of colour like moss on whinstone.

He regarded it lovingly, for it had been for twenty years his holiday wear, emerging annually for a hallowed month to be stained with salt and bleached with sun.

He put it on, and stood shrouded in an odour of camphor.

A pair of thick nailed boots and a flannel shirt and collar completed the equipment of the sportsman.

He had another long look at himself in the glass, and then descended whistling to breakfast.