"Something for the 'Lampoon'?" asked Floyd, knowing that Stewart had made one or two sketches for the paper.
"No—that is," Stewart said, jumping up and snatching the picture close to his breast, "it's not finished yet."
He tucked it away behind his desk, and Floyd sat down at the other side of the room to study. By and by he was conscious that Stewart had gently taken out his drawing-board again and resumed work on it. Once Floyd looked up from his book and saw his room-mate's face intent and illuminated by an amused smile. Floyd smiled in sympathy and wished that he, too, had a gift for drawing.
At noon Floyd rose.
"Got it done yet?" he asked, putting on his hat.
"No, not yet," Stewart answered, and he again shielded the picture from inspection.
Some time after luncheon Floyd dropped into the club. As he closed the door, he heard loud laughter in the sitting-room, and entering saw half a dozen fellows with their backs turned toward him examining something on the opposite wall.
"Just like him!" one of the fellows said; and then Stewart turned, caught sight of Floyd, and tore the sketch from the wall. He stood with it under his arm, undecided and flushed.
"Oh, go on, let Halket see it!" cried Jim Hobart, grabbing an edge of the drawing. "Here, Halket, look here!"
Stewart, seeing that concealment was impossible, relinquished his hold on the picture and allowed Hobart and the others to exhibit it. Floyd saw a series of caricatures representing himself in a ballroom—a square, stiff-legged figure with a wooden block of a head, an unmistakable if extravagant likeness. The first sketch showed him dancing, with a thick splay hand spread upon his partner's back, a wide flat smile directed foolishly over her head, and one foot ripping a flounce from the bottom of another
