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 soufflé at panting. In a hundred-yard