What was my horror on hearing him
snap out in a very crusty manner:
"How often do you change your socks?"
This is a question I allow no man to ask me. It is particularly
objectionable. "Why, sir," I replied, "don't you think you are
slightly overstepping the bounds of good taste? One does not even jest
about such totally personal matters, ye know." Then rising, I was
about to walk away without even waiting for his reply, but he called
me back and handed me my paper, on which he had written "Impossible"
and underlined it.
The next booth I visited seemed to be a little more hospitable, so I
sat down with the rest of the fellows and prepared to talk of the
events of the past twenty-one days.
"How many Articles are there?" suddenly asked a C.P.O. who hitherto
had escaped my attention.
"Twelve," I replied promptly, thinking I might just as well play the
game, too.
"What are they based on?" he almost hissed, but not quite.
"The Constitution of these United States," I cried in a loud,
public-spirited voice, at which the C.P.O. choked and turned
dangerously red. It seems that not only was I not quite right, but
that I couldn't have been more wrong.
"Go," he gasped, "before I do you some injury.
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