“That’s just what I think!” I replied with spirit. “It is just the chance we want. Here I am, with only three dollars to begin on and a poor foundation for study in the bargain. What other place is there where I could be given a start on such easy terms?” “A lot of fellows come here,” commented Jim, “who don’t look at the matter in that way--and they soon leave and don’t have any chance at all. I know you’ll appreciate the hard scrabble to get the education. Besides, poor buildings, poverty-stricken rooms, cheap board, and limited privileges ought to make us get the most out of our studies. That’s something.” “But suppose they don’t let me begin?” I gasped; for up to this time I had not let a doubt of my acceptance at Evangelical University mar the afternoon. “I don’t think they’ll let a fellow like you go begging, Al,” responded Jim. “You might as well count yourself one of us, right off.” Just then, out in the upper end of the corridor, went up a high, lisping, effeminate voice, calling, “Oh, Brother Thropper; Brother Thropper!” Jim went to the door and replied, “All right, Jason!” Then he turned to me and whispered, “Hardwick is one of the smartest fellows in the University. He’s a poet, too. He’s got a hymn set to music in this book,” and he waved a much worn, manila paper covered Gospel hymn book. “It’s very popular; sung in many of the big revivals!” With a throb of excitement I waited for the advent of this real poet. I had seen men who had called themselves poets in the mill; but their productions were local in theme, personal in lines, unpoetic in metre and never reached a further fame than insertion in the “Original Line” column of the papers. But I was now to view a real poet; one whose words were sung in churches. I was thoroughly subdued when I heard the poet’s fingers searching for the knob, outside. He was all that the comic papers and the actors suggest for poets. There was not a bit of the world about his aspect. In reaching for the dwelling places of the muses he had lengthened out until his head, covered with a thick cluster of curls, roamed through the higher levels of the atmosphere. He had to incline his head in order to get through the doorway. His face had a poetic paleness and his lips were pulled out as if he were on the verge of inspired speech. He wore a clerical vest and all his clothes were of a very spiritual black. He carried a mandolin. I was formally introduced and on my part, in acknowledging the introduction, I agreed that I was “right glad to know” Mr. Hardwick. The poet had come to rehearse some hymns with Jim. The latter produced his guitar; both musicians sat on the edge of the bed before a nickel-plated music stand, the Gospel hymn book was put in place, and to the strumming of the instruments, the vocalists sang some revival hymns with such effect as to produce from me the comment, “My, that sounds fine!” Then, growing bold through intimacy, I said,