In the fall of the year, when I brought last winter’s heavy suit out of the clothes-press and found it now to hug o’ersnugly for comfort, I cajoled my saner self into accepting a most transparent lie—­my figure had not materially altered through the intervening spring and summer; it was only that the garments, being fashioned of a shoddy material, had shrunk.  I owned a dress suit which had been form fitting, ’tis true, but none too close a fit upon me.  I had owned it for years; I looked forward to owning and using it for years to come.  I laid it aside for a period during an abatement in formal social activities; then bringing it forth from its camphor-ball nest for a special occasion I found I could scarce force my way down into the trousers, and that the waistcoat buttons could not be made to meet the buttonholes, and that the coat, after finally I had struggled into it, bound me as with chains by reason of the pull at armpits and between the shoulders.  I could not get my arms down to my sides at all.  I could only use them flapper fashion.

I felt like a penguin.  I imagine I looked a good bit like one too.

But I did not blame myself, who was the real criminal, or the grocer who was accessory before the fact.  I put the fault on the tailor, who was innocent.  Each time I had to let my belt buckle out for another notch in order that I might breathe I diagnosed the trouble as a touch of what might be called Harlem flatulency.  We lived in a flat then—­a nonelevator flat—­and I pretended that climbing three flights of steep stairs was what developed my abdominal muscles and at the same time made me short of wind.

I coined a new excuse after we had moved to a suburb back of Yonkers.  Frequently I had to run to catch the 5:07 accommodation, because if I missed it I might have to wait for the 7:05, which was no accommodation.  I would go jamming my way at top speed toward the train gate and on into the train shed, and when I reached my car I would be ’scaping so emphatically that the locomotive on up ahead would grow jealous and probably felt as though it might just as well give up trying to compete in volume of sound output with a real contender.  But I was agile enough for all purposes and as brisk as any upon my feet.  Therein I found my consolation.

Among all my fellow members of the younger Grand Central Station set there was scarce a one who could start with me at scratch and beat me to a train just pulling out of the shed; and even though he might have bested me at sprinting, I had him whipped to a souffle at panting.  In a hundred-yard dash I could spot anyone of my juniors a dozen pairs of pants and win out handily.  I was the acknowledged all-weights panting champion of the Putnam division.

[Illustration:  TO OBSERVE MR. BRYAN BREAKFASTING IS A SIGHT WORTH SEEING. Page 45]

If there had been ten or twelve of my neighbors as good at this as I was we might have organized and drilled together and worked out a class cheer for the Putnam Division Country Club—­three deep long pants, say, followed by nine sharp short pants or pantlets.  But I would have been elected pants leader without a struggle.  My merits were too self-evident for a contest.