Even President Eliot was not free from gibes and witticisms. He is a tall man and has a large red birthmark on one side of his face which, instead of disfiguring him, really adds much distinction to his looks. Of course, this was the cause of the origin of many nicknames. I remember the visit of Duke Alexis of Russia, the uncle of the late Tsar. Doctor Eliot, in showing him the college, brought him to my room. Of course, I was excited, and after they left I watched them from the window until they disappeared from sight. The duke was the most magnificent male I ever saw—six foot two or three, blond beard, dazzling uniform of white; he represented the ideal type of warrior. Beside him was our president, lean, sharp faced, almost as tall, walking with not quite so military a tread, but holding his own in a remarkable fashion. The students who had come out to watch them drew back—you can always trust them to behave, if necessary—but a crowd of “townies” followed on behind. Then two little “micks” with shirt tails flying, detached themselves from the crowd and one yelled to the other: “Say, Tommie, which is the juke—the feller in white or the feller with the red face?” One day a grinning boy presented himself at my door and asked if I would take him for a roommate. I had two bedrooms and was glad to have a companion. We became the heads of the sign-stealing crowd. The police commissioner of Cambridge had announced that he would jail the next offender in this line, and this was enough to set us madly at it. We stole business signs and street signs, tore the name plates off doors, wagons, and horse cars. My roommate’s father was horrified to see on the outside of our door, when he visited us on Class Day, the sign, “H. H. Crocker and Co.,” which had been missing from his place of business for four years. When I came home from Europe in ’91, my mother asked me to throw away some trophies. Among them were eighteen signs of ground glass upon which was printed in black “Harvard Street,” and a policeman’s badge which I had been very proud of getting in a fight. I always hated to lie; but at that time was content if I kept to the letter of the truth and disregarded the spirit. I was afraid of flunking a certain examination, and knew I could pass if I only had more time to work up the subject. Thinking up every kind of excuse, I finally decided that only a physical disability would let me off. Consequently, I did something that required more courage for one who has always been afraid of physical pain than it is easy to imagine. Making a deep gash in my thumb, I told the professor I couldn’t hold a pen, as I had “cut myself with a razor”—which was perfectly true. Of course, he let me off.