ndays, had often been
painful to Penrod; for boys have a peculiar sensitiveness in these
matters. A plain, matter-of-fact washerwoman' employed by Mrs.
Schofield, never left anything to the imagination of the passer-by; and
of all her calm display the scarlet flaunting of his father's winter
wear had most abashed Penrod. One day Marjorie Jones, all gold and
starch, had passed when the dreadful things were on the line: Penrod had
hidden himself, shuddering. The whole town, he was convinced, knew these
garments intimately and derisively.

And now, as he sat in the janitor's chair, the horrible and paralyzing
recognition came. He had not an instant's doubt that every fellow actor,
as well as every soul in the audience, would recognize what his mother
and sister had put upon him. For as the awful truth became plain to
himself it seemed blazoned to the world; and far, far louder than the
stockings, the trunks did fairly bellow the grisly secret: WHOSE they
were and WHAT they were!

Most people have suffered in a dream the experience of finding
themselves very inadequately clad in the midst of a crowd of
well-dressed people, and such dreamers' sensations are comparable to
Penrod's, though faintly, because Penrod was awake and in much too full
possession of the most active capacities for anguish.

A human male whose dress has been damaged, or reveals some vital lack,
suffers from a hideous and shameful loneliness which makes every
second absolutely unbearable until he is again as others of his sex and
species; and there is no act or sin whatever too desperate for him in
his struggle to attain that condition. Also, there is absolutely no
embarrassment possible to a woman which is comparable to that of a man
under corresponding circumstances and in this a boy is a man. Gazing
upon the ghastly trunks, the stricken Penrod felt that he was a degree
worse then nude; and a great horror of himself filled his soul.

"Penrod Schofield!"

The door into the hallway opened, and a voice demanded him. He could not
be seen from the hallway, but the hue and the cry was up; and he knew
he must be taken. It was only a question of seconds. He huddled in his
chair.

"Penrod Schofield!" cried Mrs. Lora Rewbush angrily.

The distracted boy rose and, as he did so, a long pin sank deep into his
back. He extracted it frenziedly, which brought to his ears a protracted
and sonorous ripping, too easily located by a final gesture of horror.

"Pen