He made twenty-five dollars in one week
by introducing a new brand of canned beans among the hash clubs. He took
orders for bookbinding on Saturdays, and sold advertising programs for
the college functions after school hours. More than once I borrowed ten
dollars from him that year, while I was living on hope and meeting the
mailman half-way down the block each morning just before the first of
the month. And I wasn't the only man who did it, either.

Perhaps you wonder how he had time to do all this and to mix up in all
the various departments of student bumptiousness, besides absorbing
enough information laid down and prescribed by the curriculum to batter
an "A" out of old Grubb, who hated to give a top mark worse than most
men hate to take quinine. That's one of the mysteries of college life.
No one has time to do anything but the busy man. In every school there
are a few hundred joyous loafers who hold down an office or two, and
make one team, and then have only time to take a few hasty peeps at a
book while running for chapel; and there are a dozen men who do the
debating and the heavy thinking for half a dozen societies, and make
some athletic team, and get their lessons and make their own living on
the side--and who always have time, somehow, to pick up some new and
pleasant pastime, like reading up for an oration on John Randolph, of
Roanoke, or some other eminent has-been. When I think of my wasted years
in college and of how I was always going to take hold of Psych. and
Polykon and Advanced German, and shake them as a terrier does a rat,
just as soon as I had finished about three more hands of whist--oh,
well, there's no use of crying about it now. What makes me the maddest
is that my wife says I'm an imposingly poor whist player at that.

Keg went home with one of us for the semester holidays. And at
commencement time he wrote an affectionate letter home to his volcanic
old sire, and told him that he was going to stride forth into the
unappreciative world and yank a living away from it that summer. That
was the great ambition of almost every Siwash boy. When we weren't
thinking of girls and exams in the blissful spring days, we were
stalking some summer job to its lair and sitting down to wait for it.
There wasn't anything that a Siwash boy wouldn't tackle in the summer
vacation. The farmer boys had a cinch, of course. They were skilled
laborers; and, besides, they came back in the fall in perfect condition