The Reverend was a man of guile. He didn't bat an eye. "How many students has the college?" he inquired. "We've got a hundred, all studying books and learning things," said Petey proudly. "Reahly, now?" said the Reverend; "I say, reahly? And these cows! Might I ask if these cows are a part of the college?" "Sure thing," said Petey. "Sophomore roping class uses 'em. Great class to watch." "I say now, this is extraordinary," said the Reverend. "You don't mean to tell me you tie up cows?" "Rope 'em and tie 'em and brand 'em," said Petey. "What's college for if it ain't to learn you things?" "I say now, this is extraordinary," said the Reverend. I gave him four more "extraordinaries" before I did something violent. He'd used two hundred that morning. "Might I see the class at work?" he inquired. Petey didn't even hesitate. "Sorry, Reverend," says he. "But the Professor of Roping and Branding has been drunk for a week. Class ain't working now." The college bell tapped three times. "That's cleaning-up bell," said Petey. "Oh, I say now," said the Reverend, hauling out his notebook. "What's cleaning-up bell?" "Why, to clean up the college," said Petey. "We clean it up once a week. With the fellows riding their horses into class and tracking mud and clay in, and eating lunches and stuff around, it gets pretty messy before the end of the week. We make the Freshmen clean it out. There they go now." A dozen "supes" filed slowly into the building with brooms and shovels. Pubby couldn't have looked more interested if they had been crowned heads of Europe. Just then a fine assortment of sounds broke out in the old building. The doors burst open and a young red-headed Mick from the seventh ward near by rode a pony down the steps and away for dear life. Behind him came a double-sized gent with yard-wide mustaches. He was dressed in a red shirt, overalls and firearms. He was a walking museum of weapons. Petey told me afterward that he had borrowed him from the roundhouse near by, and that for a box of cigars he had kindly consented to play the part of an irritable arsenal for one afternoon only. "That's the janitor," said Petey in an awestruck whisper. "Get behind a tree, quick. He's sure some vexed. He hates to have the boys ride their ponies into classroom." We got a fine view of the janitor as he swept past. He was a regular volcano in pants. Never have I heard the English language more richly embossed with profanity. Firing a fat locomotive up the grades around Siwash with bad coal gives a man great talent in expression. We listened to him with awe. Pubby was entranced. He asked me if it would be safe to take anything down in his notebook, and when I promised to protect him he wrote three pages.