We need not trace the devious course by which, after much burning of oil during half a dozen winters, Dan Harwood attained to a freshman’s dignity at New Haven, where, arriving with his effects in a canvas telescope, he had found a scholarship awaiting him; nor need we do more than record the fact that he had cared for furnaces, taken the night shift on a trolley car, and otherwise earned money until, in his junior year, his income from newspaper correspondence and tutoring made further manual labor unnecessary.  It is with profound regret that we cannot point to Harwood as a football hero or the mainstay of the crew.  Having ploughed the mortgaged acres, and tossed hay and broken colts, college athletics struck him as rather puerile diversion.  He would have been the least conspicuous man in college if he had not shone in debate and gathered up such prizes and honors as were accessible in that field.  His big booming voice, recognizable above the din in all ’varsity demonstrations, earned for him the sobriquet of “Foghorn” Harwood.  For the rest he studied early and late, and experienced the doubtful glory, and accepted meekly the reproach, of being a grind.

History and the dismal science had interested him immensely.  His assiduous attention to the classes of Professor Sumner had not gone unnoticed by that eminent instructor, who once called him by name in Chapel Street, much to Dan’s edification.  He thought well of belles-lettres and for a time toyed with an ambition to enrich English literature with contributions of his own.  During this period he contributed to the “Lit” a sonnet called “The Clam-Digger” which began:—­

     At rosy dawn I see thine argosy;

and which closed with the invocation:—­

     Fair tides reward thy long, laborious days.

The sonnet was neatly parodied in the “Record,” and that journal printed a gratuitous defense of the fisherman at whom, presumably, the poem had been directed.  “The sonnet discloses nothing,” said the “Record,” “as to the race, color, or previous condition of servitude of the unfortunate clammer to justify a son of Eli in attacking a poor man laudably engaged in a perfectly honorable calling.  The sonneteer, coming, we believe, from the unsalt waters of the Wabash, seems to be unaware that the fisherman at whom he has leveled his tuneful lyre is not seeking fair tides but clams.  We therefore suggest that the closing line of the sextette be amended to read—­

     Fair clams reward thy long, laborious days.”

Harwood was liked by his fellow students in the law office.  Two Yalensians, already established there, made his lot easier, and they combined against a lone Harvardian, who bitterly resented Harwood’s habit of smoking a cob pipe in the library at night.  The bouquet of Dan’s pipe was pretty well dispelled by morning save to the discerning nostril of the harvard man, who protested against it, and said the offense was indictable at common law.  Harwood stood stoutly for his rights and privileges, and for Yale democracy, which he declared his pipe exemplified.  There was much good-natured banter of this sort in the office.