“I suppose it is,” answered Stowell. “In fact ‘Mittens’ is a bit out of the ordinary himself. He’s——”
There was a knock at the door, and, in response to Stowell’s invitation, Shult, tall, ungainly, tow-haired, freckle-faced, entered and paused in momentary embarrassment as his blue eyes lighted on Reeves.
“Hello, Shult; come in,” called Stowell. “Have you brought those mittens?”
Shult had, and he undid them carefully, and crossing the study, handed them to their purchaser.
“Ah,” continued Stowell, drawing one of the heavy blue things on to his hand, “long wrists, I see. That’s fine. Like to see them, Bob?” Hazlett said that he would. Every one was very silent and grave. Reeves, after nodding to Shult, had busied himself with a magazine. Now he leaned over Hazlett’s shoulder and examined the mittens with almost breathless interest. Clinton craned his head forward and Stowell handed the other pair to him for inspection. Shult stood silently by, his embarrassment gone.
“Look as though they’d be very warm,” said Hazlett, in the voice of one hazarding an opinion on a matter of national importance. He looked inquiringly, deferentially, up at Shult.
“Warm as toast,” said the latter.
“Seem well made, too,” said Clinton. Then he colored and glanced apologetically at Stowell. Stowell turned his head.
“Do you get these hereabouts, Shult?” he asked. There was a moment’s hesitation. Then,
“I—I knit them myself,” said the freshman, quietly.