til his ears touched his coat collar.
"Gettin' cold. Fall's here. Nope, not the harem. My old lady."

Hugh looked at him bewildered. He was finding Carl more and more a
conundrum. He consistently called his mother his old lady, insisted that
she was a damned nuisance--and wrote to her every night. Hugh was
writing to his mother only twice a week. It was very confusing....

CHAPTER V

Capwell Chapel--it bore the pork merchant's name as an eternal memorial
to him--was as impressive inside as out. The stained-glass windows had
been made by a famous New York firm; the altar had been designed by an
even more famous sculptor. The walls, quite improperly, were adorned
with paintings of former presidents, but the largest painting of all--it
was fairly Gargantuan--was of the pork merchant, a large, ruddy
gentleman, whom the artist, a keen observer, had painted
truly--complacently porcine, benevolently smug.

The seniors and juniors sat in the nave, the sophomores on the right
side of the transept, the freshmen on the left. Hugh gazed upward in awe
at the dim recesses of the vaulted ceiling, at the ornately carved choir
where gowned students were quietly seating themselves, at the colored
light streaming through the beautiful windows, at the picture of the
pork merchant. The chapel bells ceased tolling; rich, solemn tones
swelled from the organ.

President Culver in cap and gown, his purple hood falling over his
shoulders, entered followed by his faculty, also gowned and hooded. The
students rose and remained standing until the president and faculty were
seated. The organ sounded a final chord, and then the college chaplain
rose and prayed--very badly. He implored the Lord to look kindly "on
these young men who have come from near and far to drink from this great
fount of learning, this well of wisdom."

The prayer over, the president addressed the students. He was a large,
erect man with iron-gray hair and a rugged intelligent face. Although he
was sixty years old, his body was vigorous and free from extra weight.
He spoke slowly and impressively, choosing his words with care and
enunciating them with great distinctness. His address was for the
freshmen: he welcomed them to Sanford College, to its splendid
traditions, its high ideals, its noble history. He spoke of the famous
men it numbered among its sons, of the work they had done for America
and the world, of the work he hoped future Sanford men, they, the
fres