upon various committee, board, and council meetings.  He is known all over the country as an authority on fraternities and their influence, and a power for making that influence constantly better and finer.  In business, farmer, and school circles in the Middle West Mr. Clark is famous for his whimsical, inspiring speeches.  His quick, shaft-like humor, his keen, devastating sarcasm, and his rare, resilient sympathy have made him a personality beloved particularly by young persons.

They still tell the story on the campus of an ingenuous youngster who walked into the dean’s office one fall, set his suitcase on the floor, and drawing two one-dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece from his pocket, laid the money on the big desk, saying: 

    “That’s all the money I have.  I’ve come to work my way through.  Will
    you help me to get a job?”

    In a flash “Tommy” noted the boy’s eager, imaginative brown eyes,
    his wide, compact lips and strong jaw.  Reaching over, he took the
    two bills and pocketed them, leaving the half-dollar.

“The traditional great men,” said the dean, “started their university careers with only fifty cents.  I don’t want you to be handicapped, so I’ll keep this two dollars.  You can get work at ——­ Green Street waiting on table for your meals, and the landlady at ——­ Chalmers Street wants a student to fire her furnace in exchange for room rent.”

The boy earned his way successfully for several months.  Then suddenly he was taken sick.  An operation was necessary.  Mr. Clark wired for a Chicago specialist and paid all expenses out of his own pocket.  The student recovered, and two years after he was graduated sent “Tommy” a letter enclosing a check for five hundred dollars.  “To redeem my two dollars which you have in trust,” the letter said, “and please use the money as a medical fund for sick students who need, but cannot afford, Chicago specialists.”

The dean has an abnormal memory for names and faces.  Every year he makes a “rogues’ gallery”—­the photographs of all incoming freshmen are taken and filed away.  And many an humble, unknown freshman has been exalted by the “Hello, Darby,” or “Good morning, Boschenstein”—­or whatever his name happened to be—­with which the dean greeted him.

Mr. Clark once revealed to me the secret of his life.  Fifteen years ago he was professor of English and had strong literary ambitions, with no little promise.  There came the offer of the office of Dean of Men.  He had to choose between writing about peoples lives or living those lives with people.  And he chose, with the result that at all times of the day and night it’s “Tommy this, and Tommy that”; an accident case may need him at two A.M. in the hospital, or a crowd of roystering students may necessitate his missing a night’s sleep in order to argue an irate sheriff into the conviction that they are not