would not have taken me very far in a sphere from which I； in common with
many others； desired not to be excluded。。。。 One day； in an idle but
inspired moment； I paraphrased a song from 〃Pinafore；〃 applying it to a
college embroglio； and the brief and lively vogue it enjoyed was
sufficient to indicate a future usefulness。 I had 〃found myself。〃 This
was in the last part of the freshman year； and later on I became a sort
of amateur； class poet…laureate。 Many were the skits I composed； and Tom
sang them。。。。
During that freshman year we often encountered Hermann Krebs； whistling
merrily； on the stairs。
〃Got your themes done？〃 he would inquire cheerfully。
And Tom would always mutter； when he was out of earshot： 〃He has got a
crust！〃
When I thought about Krebs at all；and this was seldom indeed；his
manifest happiness puzzled me。 Our cool politeness did not seem to
bother him in the least； on the contrary； I got the impression that it
amused him。 He seemed to have made no friends。 And after that first
evening； memorable for its homesickness； he never ventured to repeat his
visit to us。
One windy November day I spied his somewhat ludicrous figure striding
ahead of me； his trousers above his ankles。 I was bundled up in a new
ulster；of which I was secretly quite proud；but he wore no overcoat at
all。
〃Well； how are you getting along？〃 I asked； as I overtook him。
He made clear； as he turned； his surprise that I should have addressed
him at all； but immediately recovered himself。
〃Oh； fine；〃 he responded。 〃I've had better luck than I expected。 I'm
correspondent for two or three newspapers。 I began by washing windows；
and doing odd jobs for the professors' wives。〃 He laughed。 〃I guess
that doesn't strike you as good luck。〃
He showed no resentment at my patronage； but a self…sufficiency that made
my sympathy seem superfluous； giving the impression of an inner harmony
and content that surprised me。
〃I needn't ask how you're getting along；〃 he said。。。。
At the end of the freshman year we abandoned Mrs。 Bolton's for more
desirable quarters。
I shall not go deeply into my college career； recalling only such
incidents as； seen in the retrospect； appear to have had significance。 I
have mentioned my knack for song…writing； but it was not； I think； until
my junior year there was startlingly renewed in me my youthful desire to
write； to create something worth while； that had so long been dormant。
The inspiration came from Alonzo Cheyne； instructor in English； a
remarkable teacher； in spite of the finicky mannerisms which Tom
imitated。 And when； in reading aloud certain magnificent passages； he
forgot his affectations； he managed to arouse cravings I thought to have
deserted me forever。 Was it possible； after all； that I had been right
and my father wrong？ that I might yet be great in literature？
A mere hint from Alonzo Cheyne was more highly prized by the grinds than
fulsome praise from another teacher。 And to his credit it should be
recorded that the grinds were the only ones he treated with any
seriousness； he took pains to answer their questions； but towards the
rest of us； the Chosen； he showed a thinly veiled contempt。 None so
quick as he to detect a simulated interest； or a wily effort to make him
ridiculous； and few tried this a second time； for he had a rapier…like
gift of repartee that transfixed the offender like a moth on a pin。 He
had a way of eyeing me at times； his glasses in his hand； a queer smile
on his lips； as much as to imply that there was one at least among the
lost who was made for better things。 Not that my work was poor； but I
knew that it might have been better。 Out of his classes； however； beyond
the immediate； disturbing influence of his personality I would relapse
into indifference。。。。
Returning one evening to our quarters； which were now in the 〃Yard；〃
I found Tom seated with a blank sheet before him； thrusting his hand
through his hair and biting the end of his penholder to a pulp。 In his
muttering； which was mixed with the curious； stingless profanity of which
he was master； I caught the name of Cheyne； and I knew that he was facing
the crisis of a fortnightly theme。 The subject assigned was a narrative
of some personal experience； and it was to be handed in on the morrow。
My own theme was already； written。
〃I've been holding down this chair for an hour； and I can't seem to think
of a thing。〃 He rose to fling himself down on the lounge。 〃I wish I was
in Canada。〃
〃Why Canada？〃
〃Trout fishing with Uncle Jake at that club of his where he took me last
summer。〃 Tom gazed dreamily at the ceiling。 〃Whenever I have some
darned foolish theme like this to write I want to go fishing； and I want
to go like the devil。 I'll get Uncle Jake to take you； too； next
summer。〃
〃I wish you would。〃
〃Say； that's living all right； Hughie； up there among the tamaracks and
balsams！〃 And he began； for something like the thirtieth time； to relate
the adventures of the trip。
As he talked； the idea presented itself to me with sudden fascination to
use this incident as the subject of Tom's theme； to write it for him；
from his point of view； imitating the droll style he would have had if he
had been able to write； for； when he was interested in any matter； his
oral narrative did not lack vividness。 I began to ask him questions：
what were the trees like； for instance？ How did the French…Canadian
guides talk？ He had the gift of mimicry： aided by a partial knowledge of
French I wrote down a few sentences as they sounded。 The canoe had upset
and he had come near drowning。 I made him describe his sensations。
〃I'll write your theme for you；〃 I exclaimed； when he had finished。
〃Gee； not about that！〃
〃Why not？ It's a personal experience。〃
His gratitude was pathetic。。。。 By this time I was so full of the subject
that it fairly clamoured for expression； and as I wrote the hours flew。
Once in a while I paused to ask him a question as he sat with his chair
tilted back and his feet on the table； reading a detective story。 I
sketched in the scene with bold strokes； the desolate bois brule on the
mountain side； the polished crystal surface of the pool broken here and
there with the circles left by rising fish； I pictured Armand； the guide；
his pipe between his teeth； holding the canoe against the current； and I
seemed to smell the sharp tang of the balsams； to hear the roar of the
rapids below。 Then came the sudden hooking of the big trout； habitant
oaths from Armand； bouleversement； wetness； darkness； confusion； a half…
strangled feeling； a brief glimpse of green things and sunlight； and then
strangulation； or what seemed like it； strangulation； the sense of being
picked up and hurled by a terrific force whither？ a blinding whiteness；
in which it was impossible to breathe； one sharp； almost unbearable pain；
then another； then oblivion。。。。 Finally； awakening； to be confronted by
a much worried Uncle Jake。
By this time the detective story had fallen to the floor； and Tom was
huddled up in his chair； asleep。 He arose obediently and wrapped a wet
towel around his head； and began to write。 Once he paused long enough to
mutter：
〃Yes； that's about it；that's the way I felt！〃 and set to work again；
mechanically；all the praise I got for what I deemed a literary
achievement of the highest order！ At three o'clock； a。m。； he finished；
pulled off his clothes automatically and tumbled into bed。 I had no
desire for sleep。 My brain was racing madly； like an engine without a
governor。 I could write！ I could write！ I repeated the words over and
over to myself。 All the complexities of my present life were blotted
out； and I beheld only the long； sweet vista of the career for which I
was now convinced that nature had intended me。 My immediate fortunes
became unimportant； immaterial。 No juice of the grape I had ever tasted
made me half so drunk。。。。 With the morning； of course； came the
reaction； and I suffered the after sensations of an orgie； awaking to a
world of necessity； cold and grey and slushy； and necessity alone made me
rise from my bed。 My experience of the night before might have taught me
that happiness lies in the trick of transforming necessity； but it did
not。 The vision had faded；temporarily； at least； and such was the
distraction of the succeeding days that the subject of the theme passed
from my mind。。。。
One morning Tom was later than usual in getting home。 I was writing a
letter when he came in； and did not notice him； yet I was vaguely aware
of his standing over me。 When at last I looked up I gathered from his
expression that something serious had happened； so mournful was his face；
and yet so utterly ludicrous。
〃Say； Hugh； I'm in the deuce of a mess；〃 he announced。
〃What's the matter？〃 I inquired。
He sank down on the table with a groan。
〃It's Alonzo；〃 he said。
Then I remembered the theme。
〃Whatwhat's he done？〃 I demanded。
〃He says I must become a writer。 Think of it； me a writer！ He says I'm
a young Shakespeare； that I've been lazy and hid my light under a bushel！
He says he knows now what I can do； and if I don't keep up the quality；
he'll know the reason why； and write a personal letter to my father。 Oh；
hell！〃
In spite of his evident anguish； I was seized with a convulsive laughter。
Tom stood staring at me moodily。
〃You think it's funny；don't you？ I guess it is； but what's going to
become of me？ That's what I want to know。 I've been in trouble before；
but never in any like this。 And who got me into it？ You！〃
Here was gratitude！
〃You've got to go on writing 'em； now。〃 His voice became desperately
pleading。 〃Say； Hugh； old man； you can temper 'em downtemper 'em down
gradually。 And by the end of the year； let's say； they'll be about
normal again。〃
He seemed actually shivering。
〃The end of the year！〃 I cried； the predicament striking me for the first
time in its fulness。 〃Say； you've got a crust！〃
〃You'll do it； if I have to hold a gun over you；〃 he announced grimly。
Mingled with my anxiety； which was real； was an exultation that would not
down。 Nevertheless； the idea of devel