My capital of three dollars was very quickly expended. After I had spent the last quarter of a dollar for writing paper and pens, my pockets were as empty as they were the hour I bought my suit from the Jewish merchant. I stood penniless in the first week of my educational career: a realization that brought out every atom of self-distrust, philosophical pessimism and gloomy foreboding. I had been completely dependent upon nickels and half dollars previously. I had not moved without they paved the way. Nothing of enjoyment and privilege had been secured without money. Theatres, games, parties, trips; these had always made their call on my spending money. Now I stood facing an academic career absolutely without a penny and with no possible hope that in the outside world there would ever be any benefactor to forward one. I was stranded. I thought of the students who relied upon monthly checks from home or from friends. I thought of the students who had their own bank accounts which would carry them through the school. I thought, with a kindling of envy, of the students who the previous summer had earned the following year’s expenses. I secured a minimum of comfort from such reflections. They plunged me deeper and deeper into the gulping pit that sucks enthusiasm out of life. Thropper found me, standing by the window, indulging in such a dispiriting review of my prospects. In his bustling way he shouted: “Well, Priddy, what’s the row now, eh?” “I shouldn’t be--here,” I choked. “Well,” he exclaimed, “I thought you’d get ’em--soon.” “What do you mean, Thropper?” “Homesick blues, that’s all. You’ve got every symptom showing, Priddy. They’re on you, all right.” “I’m not homesick, Thropper,” I blurted out. “I have no reason to be homesick. It’s not that at all. I’m fretting about money: that’s all.” “The root of all evil,” he mocked. “Wrong there, Thropper.” I half smiled, cheered beyond measure by his banter. “I heard a preacher say that the Bible said, ‘The love of money is the root of evil.’” “Well,” bluffed Thropper, “what’s the difference? Wherever you find money you find the love of it. They are synonymous.” “I’m in no danger from either, about this time, Thropper. I haven’t a cent to my name, and as I search the future I don’t see a prospect of any except I give up the University.” “That needn’t worry you, Priddy!” I looked at my roommate in amazement. He was not smiling. In fact, he was looking very seriously at me. “Not worry me?” I gasped. “That’s comforting, to be sure!” “What have you got to worry about?” he asked. “What--worry about?” I stammered, not falling in with his mood. “Yes. Tell me!” “In the first place,” I explained, “you know that I had but three dollars--three--t-h-r-e-e, three, d-o-l-l-a-r-s, dollars; three dollars--to begin my education with.” “Yes.”