And then, Quincy thought of expressing his idea more vicariously. He worked a week on an essay that he entitled “College Cramps.” In it, he made reference to the grip of college routine and business on all the native energies of youth that should run wild; to the effort through team-work and club-work, to channel ebullience into a trough where college gods--cattle of iron and wood--could drink and guzzle. He sent his essay to the college literary magazine. It was sent back. Across the title page a witty editor had scribbled: “We’re sorry you have them, old man.” Then the boy retouched his essay and mailed it to Professor Deering. Within, he enclosed a note stating that it had been rejected by the college paper. He hoped, however, that it would be read by the man who really had inspired it. He heard nothing from Professor Deering. And soon after, he made a momentous journey to New York. But before this, he had found a friend. V His name was Garsted--Simon Garsted. One day, Quincy crossed the campus with him. He had been a slight ways behind. He had overtaken Quincy. “Aren’t you Burt of the freshman class?” he asked, introducing himself. He was a junior--an obscure one as far as college honors were concerned. “I was at a tea, last Sunday, at Professor Deering’s house,” Garsted explained. “He read your paper aloud.” “Did he?” For a moment, Quincy was rejoiced. And then it occurred to him that Mr. Deering might have acknowledged the paper’s receipt--if he had thought so highly of it--might have asked his permission about reading it aloud. So Quincy withdrew into his shell. And since only Garsted was there, congratulating him, he turned his resentment upon him. “I hope you liked it,” he said icily. “You’re a mighty independent young chap, Burt,” Garsted went on, “I like that.” “Thanks.” Garsted stopped, causing Quincy to do likewise and to face him. And then, he smiled. “Look here, Burt,” he said softly, “Deering’s a strange, sloppy man. But he’s the biggest man here. Don’t take what he did amiss. If I know him, he forgot even to invite you to his tea. That’s just like him. One day, when his interest in your paper is a bit subsided, he’ll recall that there’s more to you than it--that you’re behind it. Then he’ll drop you a note. Meantime, however, don’t be sensitive--with _him_.” There was a pause. Quincy was looking a trifle sheepish. Garsted was laughing: “Save your sensitiveness for other things, Burt--and come and see me.” He put out his hand. Quincy inclined his head slightly and as their hands clasped their eyes met. Garsted caught the deep pathos of this boy, lost and alone in a college campus. He felt a thrill as one does at some beautiful flash of thought. He saw the contrast between this silent, stubborn boy and the easy obviousness of the things about him.