"Stage fright, I guess," Perry concluded. "They say every speaker gets it sometimes. You always give a good talk when you stand up in our room."
"I guess it was stage fright," said Littlefield. But he knew better. He had been conscious of a shortcoming, and the knowledge had robbed him of the gift of logical debate. On the way home he stopped and surveyed himself in the mirrored window of a clothing store. He looked chunky and hulking. A fine formidable appearance for the football field; but the Congress of Northfield High had met in the science lecture room. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and walked on.
Next day he came to school with his trousers creased. The sweater had been discarded. In its place he wore a soft shirt and a knitted tie.
"What's the matter with the sweater?" Perry King had demanded.
"Getting its annual bath," Littlefield had answered laconically. He never wore the sweater into a classroom again.
He was thinking of all this as he dressed that morning. The grin left his face, and into his eyes came a steady look of contemplation. Somehow, the processes that had given him a sense of the fitness of things had endowed him with some of the traits of maturity. He felt in his veins,
