Even this failed to touch us. His father--he told us with undiminished candour--had been a German emigrant who had come over in '49, after the cause of liberty had been lost in the old country, and made eye-glasses and opera glasses. There hadn't been a fortune in it. He, Hermann, had worked at various occupations in the summer time, from peddling to farming, until he had saved enough to start him at Harvard. Tom, who had been bending over his bureau drawer, straightened up. “What did you want to come here for?” he demanded. “Say, what did you?” Mr. Krebs retorted genially. “To get an education, of course.” “An education!” echoed Tom. “Isn't Harvard the oldest and best seat of learning in America?” There was an exaltation in Krebs's voice that arrested my attention, and made me look at him again. A troubled chord had been struck within me. “Sure,” said Tom. “What did you come for?” Mr. Krebs persisted. “To sow my wild oats,” said Tom. “I expect to have something of a crop, too.” For some reason I could not fathom, it suddenly seemed to dawn on Mr. Krebs, as a result of this statement, that he wasn't wanted. “Well, so long,” he said, with a new dignity that curiously belied the informality of his farewell. An interval of silence followed his departure. “Well, he's got a crust!” said Tom, at last. My own feeling about Mr. Krebs had become more complicated; but I took my cue from Tom, who dealt with situations simply. “He'll come in for a few knockouts,” he declared. “Here's to old Harvard, the greatest institution of learning in America! Oh, gee!” Our visitor, at least, made us temporarily forget our homesickness, but it returned with redoubled intensity when we had put out the lights and gone to bed.