For he was very young to be a doctor of sociology, only twenty-seven, and he looked younger.  In appearance and atmosphere he was a strapping big college man, smooth-faced and easy-mannered, clean and simple and wholesome, with a known record of being a splendid athlete and an implied vast possession of cold culture of the inhibited sort.  He never talked shop out of class and committee rooms, except later on, when his books showered him with distasteful public notice and he yielded to the extent of reading occasional papers before certain literary and economic societies.

He did everything right—­too right; and in dress and comportment was inevitably correct.  Not that he was a dandy.  Far from it.  He was a college man, in dress and carriage as like as a pea to the type that of late years is being so generously turned out of our institutions of higher learning.  His handshake was satisfyingly strong and stiff.  His blue eyes were coldly blue and convincingly sincere.  His voice, firm and masculine, clean and crisp of enunciation, was pleasant to the ear.  The one drawback to Freddie Drummond was his inhibition.  He never unbent.  In his football days, the higher the tension of the game, the cooler he grew.  He was noted as a boxer, but he was regarded as an automaton, with the inhuman precision of a machine judging distance and timing blows, guarding, blocking, and stalling.  He was rarely punished himself, while he rarely punished an opponent.  He was too clever and too controlled to permit himself to put a pound more weight into a punch than he intended.  With him it was a matter of exercise.  It kept him fit.

As time went by, Freddie Drummond found himself more frequently crossing the Slot and losing himself in South of Market.  His summer and winter holidays were spent there, and, whether it was a week or a week-end, he found the time spent there to be valuable and enjoyable.  And there was so much material to be gathered.  His third book, Mass and Master, became a text-book in the American universities; and almost before he knew it, he was at work on a fourth one, The Fallacy of the Inefficient.

Somewhere in his make-up there was a strange twist or quirk.  Perhaps it was a recoil from his environment and training, or from the tempered seed of his ancestors, who had been book-men generation preceding generation; but at any rate, he found enjoyment in being down in the working-class world.  In his own world he was “Cold-Storage,” but down below he was “Big” Bill Totts, who could drink and smoke, and slang and fight, and be an all-round favourite.  Everybody liked Bill, and more than one working girl made love to him.  At first he had been merely a good actor, but as time went on, simulation became second nature.  He no longer played a part, and he loved sausages, sausages and bacon, than which, in his own proper sphere, there was nothing more loathsome in the way of food.