"Don't you know why I'm leaving this place? I'll tell you," he exclaimed, excitedly; all his oratorical manner and assumed grandiloquence was forgotten with the rest of his speech. He almost screamed in his natural voice, "I'll tell you, I HATE you--all, every one." He swept his hand wildly around the circle, "From the oldest, gray-haired D.D. to those two conceited young assistants, you cold, intellectual, cultured, bloodless, unemotional, self-satisfied creatures--I HATE YOU. Of course _you_ don't care; you won't lose anything by my hate." He paused a moment, buttoned up his little coat and began again, the words pouring out of themselves: "I know I'm nobody; I know I'm not attractive, or cultured, but I'm a human being--if I'm not from New England--and I have a human heart. I have been here a whole month, and in that time what one of you has made a friendly advance?--has spoken a word of encouragement?--has even taken note of my existence, except as a machine paid to do a certain amount of work? I found that out that first day in chapel when your President told you all of the bargain he had made. He assured you that you were not cheated, as the article rented had had a good standing in his class. I wondered at the time he did not, in naming my good points like a horse, mention my college instead of saying _a good Eastern college_--that's what I can't stand. I could endure the treatment of myself, but those slurs on my college I cannot and will not stand. Stop! Don't get excited; don't try to explain anything. You don't want me to go, because you think you have a good, hard-working horse. You think to detain me by informing me of my poverty. That might do, but--but read that!" He snatched from his pocket the letter he had received that morning. "_Read that!_" and he started toward the desk with the letter in his hand. But the strain was too much for the little tutor. He fainted for the first time in his life. * * * * * He never found out whether they read the letter or not. Of course, he could have ascertained by writing out there, but he never did. Indeed, he did not like to think of that time now, though he did love to take out a certain letter with a printed head at the top and read the formal language which stated briefly how that, owing to the fact that Mr. Charles Benjamin Howard had decided, etc., "the fellowship in, etc., was open to Horatio B. Stacy as being, etc., and that it was with a great deal of pleasure"--but he knew it all by heart, because he had intended to repeat it once on a certain awful occasion when he was, he thought, temporarily insane, at least not Horatio B. Stacy. COLLEGE MEN "Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan, Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan, Do you want me? No, sir-r-ee, Not this afternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon."