ed him in private because it would spoil a Freshman to have a
Senior so attentive. We always compared notes later, and were much
amused.

But words were one thing, actions another. Since there could be nothing
serious in our relationship, naturally there was no reason why we should
be left alone. If there was to be a rally or a concert, the Senior
sitting at the head of the dinner-table would ask, "How many are going
to-night with a man?" Hands. "How many of the girls are going together?"
Hands. Then, to me, "Are you going with Carl?" A faint "Yes." "Then
we'll all go along with you." Carl stood it twice--twice he beheld this
cavalcade bear away in our wake; then he gritted his teeth and
announced, "Never again!"

The next college occasion was a rally at the Greek Theatre. Again it was
announced at the table that all the unescorted ones would accompany Carl
and me. I foresaw trouble. When I came downstairs later, with my hat and
coat on, there stood Carl, surrounded by about six girls, all hastily
buttoning their gloves, his sister, who knew no more of the truth about
Carl and me than the others, being one of them. Never had I seen such a
look on Carl's face, and I never did again. His feet were spread apart,
his jaw was set, and he was glaring. When he saw me he said, "Come on!"
and we dashed for the door.

Sister Helen flew after us. "But Carl--the other girls!"

Carl stuck his head around the corner of the front door, called
defiantly, "_Damn_ the other girls!" banged the door to, and we fled.
Never again were we molested.

Carl finished his Senior year, and a full year it was for him. He was
editor of the "Pelican," the University funny paper, and of the
"University of California Magazine," the most serious publication on the
campus outside the technical journals; he made every "honor"
organization there was to make (except the Phi Beta Kappa); he and a
fellow student wrote the successful Senior Extravaganza; he was a reader
in economics, and graduated with honors. And he saw me every single day.

I feel like digressing here a moment, to assail that old
principle--which my father, along with countless others, held so
strongly--that a fellow who is really worth while ought to know by his
Junior year in college just what his life-work is to be. A few with an
early developed special aptitude do, but very few. Carl entered college
in August, 1896, in Engineering; but after a term found that it had no
further appe