For some time his mind has wavered
between that and endowing a chair of philosophy. There
is, and always has been, a sort of natural connection
between the drinking of beer and deep quiet thought. Mr.
Sims, as a brewer, felt that philosophy was the proper
thing.
We left the train, walked through the little town and
entered the university gates.
"Gee!" said Mr. Sims, pausing a moment and leaning on
his stick, "were the gates only as big as that?"
We began to walk up the avenue.
"I thought there were more trees to it than these," said
Mr. Sims.
"Yes," I answered. "You often said that the avenue was
a quarter of a mile long."
"So the thing used to be," he murmured.
Then Mr. Sims looked at the campus. "A dinky looking
little spot," he said.
"Didn't you say," I asked, "that the Arts Building was
built of white marble?"
"Always thought it was," he answered. "Looks like rough
cast from here, doesn't it."
"We'll have to go in and see the President, I suppose,"
continued Mr. Sims. He said it with regret. Something of
his undergraduate soul had returned to his body. Although
he had never seen the President (this one) in his life,
and had only read of his appointment some five years
before in the newspapers, Mr.
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