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was a lady ostrich, and moreover one typical of her sex.
But men are bad enough. I know that I was.
CHAPTER IV
I Become The Panting Champion
Month after month, through the cycle of the revolving seasons, I went
along deceiving myself, even though I deceived none else, coining new
pleas in extenuation or outright contradictions to meet each new-arising
element of confirmatory proof to a state of case which no unprejudiced
person could fail to acknowledge. The original discoverer of the alibi
was a fat man; indeed, it was named for him--Ali Bi-Ben Adhem, he
was, a friend and companion of the Prophet, and so large that, going
into Mecca, he had to ride on two camels. This fact is historically
authenticated. I looked it up.
In the fall of the year, when I brought last winter's heavy suit out of the
clothes-press and found it now to hug o'ersnugly for comfort, I cajoled
my saner self into accepting a most transparent lie--my figure had not
materially altered through the intervening spring and summer; it was
only that the garments, being fashioned of a shoddy material, had
shrunk. I owned a dress suit which had been form fitting, 'tis true, but
none too close a fit upon me. I had owned it for years; I looked forward
to owning and using it for years to come. I laid it aside for a period
during an abatement in formal social activities; then bringing it forth

from its camphor-ball nest for a special occasion I found I could scarce
force my 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 dash I could spot anyone of my juniors a dozen pairs
of pants and win out handily. I was the acknowledged all-weights
panting champion of the Putnam division.
[Illustration: TO OBSERVE MR. BRYAN BREAKFASTING IS A

SIGHT WORTH SEEING. Page 45]
If there had been ten or twelve of my neighbors as good at this as I was
we might have organized and drilled together and worked out a class
cheer for the Putnam Division Country Club--three deep long pants,
say, followed by nine sharp short pants or pantlets. But I would have
been elected pants leader without a struggle. My merits were too
self-evident for a contest.
But did I attribute my supremacy in this regard to accumulating and
thickening layers of tissue in the general vicinity of my midriff? I did
not! No, sir, because I was fat--indubitably, uncontrovertibly and
beyond the peradventure of a doubt, fat--I kept on playing the fat man's
game of mental solitaire. I inwardly insisted, and I think partly believed,
that my lung power was too great for the capacity of my throat opening,