“Not really!” exclaimed Stowell, in much surprise. “Did you hear that, Clint? He makes them himself. It must be quite a knack, eh?”
“I should say so!” Clinton exclaimed, enthusiastically. “It—it’s an accomplishment!”
“By Jove!” said Hazlett. They all stared admiringly at Shult.
“But, I say, don’t stand up,” exclaimed Stowell. “‘Chick,’ push that chair over.”
Shult sat down. He was very grateful to Reeves for not telling what he had seen during his call, and grateful to the others for not laughing at his confession. It had taken quite a deal of courage to make that confession, for he had anticipated ridicule. But instead these immaculately dressed fellows almost appeared to envy him his knowledge of the art of knitting woolen mittens. He was very pleased.
“I wonder—” began Clinton. He glanced doubtfully at his host. “I think I’d like to have some of these myself. Have you—er—any more, Mr. Shult?”
“Oh, yes; I can make a pair an evening, anyhow. I—I didn’t suppose you fellows would care for them.”
“Nonsense,” said Stowell. “They’re just what a chap needs around here. I—I used to wear them when I was a boy; after all, there’s nothing like old-fashioned mitts to keep your hands warm.”