"D-o-u-g--dug--Douglas," I snapped.
"'Douglas round him drew his cloak.' Now, Ira Snarkle, you may read five
lines, beginning with the second stanza."
Ira was very tall for his sixteen years. His clothes had never caught up
to him, for his trousers always failed by two inches to grasp his
shoe-tops, and his coat had a terrible struggle to touch the top of his
trousers. For the shortness of the sleeves he partly compensated with a
pair of bright red worsted wristers. When he bent his elbows the sleeves
flew up his arms, and these wristers became the most conspicuous thing in
his whole attire.
Ira was holding his book in the correct position now, so I saw a length
of bare arms embraced at the wrists by brilliant bands of red.
"'My manors, halls, and bowers shall still be open at my soveryne's
will,'" chanted the boy.
He paused, and to illustrate the imperious humor of the Scot, he waved
his fingers and a red wrister at me. The gesture unnerved him for a
moment, and he had to go thumbing over the page to find his place.
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