A janitor picked it up for him as the crowd of boys
passed.
"What pack of young bums are those?" asked Mr. Sims.
"You oughtn't to let young roughs like that come into
the buildings. Are they here from some school or something?"
"No sir," said the janitor. "They're students."
"Students?" repeated Mr. Sims. "And what are they shouting
like that for?"
"There's a notice up that their professor is ill, and so
the class is cancelled, sir."
"Class!" said Mr. Sims. "Are those a class?"
"Yes, sir," said the janitor. "That's the Senior Class
in Philosophy."
Mr. Sims said nothing. He seemed to limp more than his
custom as we passed down the avenue.
On the way home on the train he talked much of crude
alcohol and the possibilities of its commercial manufacture.
So far as I know, his only benefaction up to date has
been the two dollars that he gave to a hackman to drive
us away from the college.
6.--Fetching the Doctor: From Recollections of
Childhood in the Canadian Countryside
We lived far back in the country, such as it used to be
in Canada, before the days of telephones and motor cars,
with long lonely roads and snake fences buried in deep
snow, and with cedar swamps where the sleighs could hardly
pass two abreast.
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