to the truth.' So I saved my little
nickels and came. But college," he added moodily, "ain't advanced as far
as it was in my young grandfather's time."

"Do you know who's to blame for this stuff?" he said. "It's not the
profs, I've nothing against them, all they need is to be kicked out. No,
it's us, because we stand for their line of drule. If we got right up on
our honkeys and howled, all of us, for a real education, we'd get it by
next Saturday night. But we don't care a damn. Why don't we? Are we all
of us dubs? No we're not. Go down to the football field and see. There's
as much brains in figuring out those plays as there is in mathematics.
Would we stand for coaches like our profs? But that's just it. It's the
thing to be alive in athletics and a dub in everything else. And because
it's the thing, every fellow fits in. On the whole," he added
reflectively, "I think it's this 'dear old college' feeling that's to
blame for it all."

"My God, Joe!" This was high treason!

"Sure it is," he retorted. "It _is_ your god and the god of us all. This
dear old college feeling. It's got us all stuck together so close that
nobody dares to be himself and buck against its standards."

This from Joe Kramer! How often, in a football game, have I seen him on
the reporter's bench, his sallow face now all a-scowl, now beaming
satisfaction as he pounded his neighbor on the back.

In pursuit of "a real education" we got into the habit of spending
almost every evening in the college library, where except at examination
times there was nobody but a few silent "polers."

I grew to love this place. It was so huge and shadowy, with only shaded
lights here and there. It had such tempting crannies. I loved its deep
quiet, so pleasantly broken now and then by a step, a whisper, the sound
of a book being moved from its shelf where perhaps it had stood unread
for years, or occasional voices passing outside or snatches of song from
the campus. And here I thought I was finding myself. That French prof
had introduced me to Voltaire, Hugo, Balzac, Maupassant and others who
were becoming my new idols. This was art, this was beauty and truth,
this was getting at life in a way that thrilled.

But now and then looking up from my book I would see Joe prowling about
the place, taking down a book, then shoving it back and scowling as he
ran his eyes along whole rows of titles.

"This darned library shut its doors," he would growl to himself, "just