punctuated irregularly, over the auditorium, by imperfectly subdued
screams both of dismay and incredulous joy, and by two dismal shrieks.
Altogether it was an extraordinary sound, a sound never to be forgotten
by any one who heard it. It was almost as unforgettable as the sight
which caused it; the word "sight" being here used in its vernacular
sense, for Penrod, standing unmantled and revealed in all the medieval
and artistic glory of the janitor's blue overalls, falls within its
meaning.

The janitor was a heavy man, and his overalls, upon Penrod, were merely
oceanic. The boy was at once swaddled and lost within their blue
gulfs and vast saggings; and the left leg, too hastily rolled up, had
descended with a distinctively elephantine effect, as Margaret had
observed. Certainly, the Child Sir Lancelot was at least a sight.

It is probable that a great many in that hall must have had, even then,
a consciousness that they were looking on at History in the Making.
A supreme act is recognizable at sight: it bears the birthmark of
immortality. But Penrod, that marvellous boy, had begun to declaim, even
with the gesture of flinging off his mantle for the accolade:

"I first, the Child Sir Lancelot du Lake,
Will volunteer to knighthood take,
And kneeling here before your throne
I vow to----"

He finished his speech unheard. The audience had recovered breath, but
had lost self-control, and there ensued something later described by a
participant as a sort of cultured riot.