On his way across the campus Lawrence stopped and told an innocent old elm-tree this: "The man that first said '_Similia similibus curantur_' was very much of a fool. I feel more like a fellow cribbing in exams than I did before." Then he kicked the elm and shouted "Hello-o, Billy Nolan, are you up there?" and ran up the stairs to smoke a good-night pipe and talk about senior vacation. He felt better in the morning. It was one evening about a week after this that young Thompson came running up to Lawrence's room with a scowl on his face, and talked like an important man in a hurry. "Why, he's dead easy! I'll say, 'Aw, let's get out of here, this beer is rotten.' 'All right,' he'll say, 'let's wander over to the room.' Minute we get there he proposes that we pole the Greek or something. See his idea? He thinks he'll sour me on being quiet, but, ha, ha! I fool him every time--how? Why I just sit down and pole to beat the band until too late for him to join the gang. See? Oh, but he's easy! I have made up my mind to keep that boy from making a fool of himself, and when I make up my mind to a thing, I don't believe in crawling. Besides, poling won't hurt me any." "Oh, no, Thompson," said Lawrence sympathetically. "I don't see how it can hurt you." Darnell came in a little later and sat down in the very same chair and had this to say: "Lawrence, Gus Thompson is a queer fellow. You know he doesn't go with the crowd any more, and because _he_ is sour and doesn't care to have any good times, he tries to interfere with my enjoyment too. He's always proposing that we stay in the rooms--you know we room together now. I thought I could look after him better in that way-- Well, when he kicks on poling I start to join the gang, and then he says 'All right, let's pole.' He must be jealous about me. But that's the way I work him. He's so easy." "Yes," said Lawrence, "lots of people are." THE SCRUB QUARTER-BACK Tommy Wormsey was a meek little boy with an ugly face, mostly covered with court-plaster, and he would rather fall on a football than eat. When he came trotting out upon the field, the college along the side lines always smiled at the way he tipped his head to one side with his eyes on the ground, as though he was ashamed of himself and of his funny little bumpy body, stuck into a torn suit and stockings which weren't mates and had holes in them. When he skimmed over the ground and dived through the air and brought down a two-hundred-and-something-pound guard, with his knotty little arms barely reaching about the big thighs, it looked very absurd, and when he jumped up again, yelling "3--9--64" in his shrill earnest voice, and ran sniffling back to his place, with his sorrowful face seeming to say, "I know I oughtn't to have let him slide so far, but please don't scold me this time," the crowd laughed uproariously, which hurt his feelings.