l be
proud to write home we know you." Carl was hating himself for ever
having teased Genie Linderbeck. "You've helped me a thundering lot
whenever I've asked you about that blame Greek syntax. I guess we're
jealous of you. You--uh--you don't want to _let_ 'em kid you----"

Carl was embarrassed before Genie's steady, youthful, trusting gaze.
He stooped for a handful of pebbles, with which he pelted the
landscape, maundering, "Say, why don't you come around to the Turk's
room and get better acquainted with the Gang?"

"When shall I come?"

"When? Oh, why, thunder!--you know, Genie--just drop in any time."

"I'll be glad to."

Carl was perspiring at the thought of what the Gang would do to him
when they discovered that he had invited Genie. But he was game. "Come
up to my room whenever you can, and help me with my boning," he added.
"You mustn't ever get the idea that we're conferring any blooming
favor by having you around. It's you that help us. Our necks are
pretty well sandpapered, I'm afraid.... Come up to my room any
time.... I'll have to be hiking on if I'm going to get much of a walk.
Come over and see me to-night."

"I wish you'd come up to Mr. Frazer's with me some Sunday afternoon
for tea, Ericson."

Henry Frazer, M.A. (Yale), associate professor of English literature,
was a college mystery. He was a thin-haired young man, with a
consuming love of his work, which was the saving of souls by teaching
Lycidas and Comus. This was his first year out of graduate school, his
first year at Plato--and possibly his last. It was whispered about
that he believed in socialism, and the president, the Rev. Dr. S.
Alcott Wood, had no patience with such silly fads.

Carl marveled, "Do you go to Frazer's?"

"Why, yes!"

"Thought everybody was down on him. They say he's an anarchist, and I
know he gives fierce assignments in English lit.; that's what all the
fellows in his classes say."

"All the fools are down on him. That's why I go to his house."

"Don't the fellows--uh--kind of----"

"Yes," piped Genie in his most childish tone of anger, his tendency to
stammer betraying him, "they k-kid me for liking Frazer. He's--he's
the only t-teacher here that isn't p-p-p----"

"Spit!"

"----provincial!"

"What d'you mean by 'provincial'?"

"Narrow. Villagey. Do you know what Bernard Shaw says----?"

"Never read a word of him, my son. And let me tell you that my idea of
no kind of conversation is to have a guy sp