“You didn’t manage to sweeten _all_ of the wool, did you, Jim?” I asked dubiously as I noted the dank odor that came from the chair; an odor that was reminiscent of a junk shop after a rain. “Why,” replied Jim, in good humor, “I don’t notice it a bit. I think it must be your imagination.” “Well,” I concluded, ungraciously, “probably it’s like the gas. You’ve got used to it.” Between the gas stove and the wash stand stood a galvanized water pail, three-quarters filled and with a fuzzy growth on its oily surface. “That ain’t drinking water, is it?” I asked in alarm. “No,” laughed Jim. “That’s in case of fire. I ought to have changed that water two weeks ago, but I guess I’m getting lazy.” By this time I had my coat off and had accepted Jim’s invitation to wash the train dust off my face. For this purpose I scraped around in the soap dish until I had secured two thin wafers of soap, one a transparent reminder of perfumed toilet soap, the other a dull yellow, and odorous with naphtha, which I recognized as the remnant of a powerful disinfecting and wash-day soap; used by my Aunt to drive black oil from overalls. I had to rub these two antagonistic wafers together to make sufficient lather for washing. Then, too, I had to hurry my toilet, for the flowered wash bowl had a yellow crack on its under side, through which the water dripped rapidly while I washed. Jim said, “Until you get some, Al, you must use my towel.” He took it down from the wire behind the stove and let me have it, with the remark: “There’s a dry corner, there near the fringe.” The window was open, and while I was busy brushing the dust from my clothes, a gust of wind came in and I heard a rip on the wall followed by an exclamation from Jim, “There it goes again! The wall will be going next!” On examination I found that the wall paper, with its highly conventionalized lotus leaves, had lost its grip on the wall behind the gas stove and had uncovered a great area of plastered wall. Jim produced some tacks, and using a flat-iron for a hammer managed to return the paper to its place and to keep it anchored there through a liberal use of tacks. He apologized, when he came down to the floor, “All this is miserable enough, Al, and I don’t blame you for thinking so.” “Uh,” I retorted, “I ain’t grumbling. Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, I don’t see what more the college can do for ninety dollars a year, board, room, and teaching.” “‘Tuition’ you ought to say,” corrected Jim. “I’m glad you’ve got the right spirit about this place, Al. You’re right, we can’t expect any more for ninety dollars! I don’t see how they can do for us what they can. It’s worth a mighty lot for you and me to get a chance, and if education should cost more, where would you and I be?”