I wondered what silly, tyrannical straining of red tape discipline on some one's part had subjected this sensitive, refined girl to the humiliating ordeal of having to appear before the president of the college. Probably for plucking some trashy flower, or, at the worst, looking twice at some sappy freshman acquaintance waving his hand from a frat house.
"By Jove, a devilish shame!" I ejaculated.
"I should say!" Her voice was aggrieved. "All for a measly prize fight."
"Prize fight!" I gasped.
She nodded brightly. "Oh, a modest one, you know—not, of course, a Jeffries-Johnson affair, but I tell you we had them going some for a round and a half. Athletics is my long suit—just you feel those biceps." And with sudden movement she swept upward the wide, silken sleeve, showing a limb like the lost arm of the Venus de what's-its-name.
"Go on—just feel it," she commanded, flexing the arm.
"I—I—" And I gulped and balked.
"Feel it, I tell you!" And I did.
And then I almost fell over, I received such a shock. For my fingers seemed to be clasping, not the soft, rounded contour I beheld, but a great massed protuberance, hard and unyielding as a bunch of dried putty. My fingers could not half span it.
I jerked them away, bewildered.