as he arose from his seat, stretching out his tall, athletic figure, he was all at once struck with the contrast of his rumpled sweater and wrinkled trousers. For the first time he saw himself with a truthful, critical eye, and his judgment wrote him down as slouchy.
"What room, please?" the presiding officer asked crisply.
"Room 13," he said, and flushed painfully. He was trying to draw back the sweater at the sides so that the part exposed through his open coat would be smooth. Embarrassment settled over him. He became disconcerted. The words he had been marshaling to score his point fled his recollection. He stumbled, stammered, and was lost. When he at last sat down after two minutes of torture it was with the conviction that he had made a mess of his entire argument.
When the meeting was over, he went quietly from the room. Perry King followed him to the hall. Perry, as usual, was brutally frank.
"What in thunder got into you to-day, Lit? When you stood up I thought I was going to hear something. Before you got through I was ashamed that you and I were there from the same room. I'd have liked to wish you on somebody else. What happened?"
Littlefield shrugged his shoulders.
