In cold weather, now, he might overlap his wrinkles in a clapboarded effect and save the expense of laying in heavy underwear.

True, this might give to the wearer a clinker-built appearance; still it would keep him nice and warm, and no doubt he had his armor on outside the rest of his things.

But likewise there must have been drawbacks.

Suppose, now, the marquis were caught out in blowy weather and the wind worked in under his tucks and the ratlines pulled loose and, all full-rigged and helpless, bellying and billowing and flapping and jibing, he went scudding against his will before the gale.
Could he hope to tack and go about before he blew clear over into the next county?
I doubt it.
And suppose he inflated himself for a party or a reception or something, and a practical joker put a tack in a chair and he sat down on it and had a blow-out.

The thought is not a pretty one, yet the thing were possible.
From these crude beginnings I worked my way down toward the present day.
Doctor Banting, of England, the father of latter-day dietetics from whose name in commemoration of his services to mankind we derive the verb intransitive "to bant," had theories wherein his chief contemporaneous German rival, Epstein the Bavarian, radically disagreed with him.