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....