“Sixty-five dollars during school terms last year, outside of vacations: sixty-five dollars earned at odd jobs during Saturdays and odd hours,” he said. “All the spare cash I was called upon to spend. Of course in the summer, by canvassing stereoscopic views, I cleared sixty-seven more, above my expenses. That’s what the arm stands for. Its strength is convertible into cash almost any day that I care to go out and earn it--keeping on with my studies, too, of course.” “But I’m earning my board by waiting on table,” I urged; “that does not touch my tuition and room rent, Thropper.” “Which amounts to about thirty dollars outside of board,” he laughed. “You aren’t worth much if you can’t earn that in a year and keep on with your studies, Priddy. I think you’re lucky, that’s what I think, in earning your board so easily. That’s the big item!” “But what can I find to do? I can’t leave the campus. I have to be around for the meal hours.” Thropper went over to his desk and secured a brown-backed account book, and read off the following list: “Stacking books in the library, twelve cents an hour. Wheeling Professor Dix’s invalid aunt in wheel chair, twelve cents an hour and dinner. Scrubbing floors in University Hall, twelve cents an hour. Weeding garden, cutting sugar-cane, thawing frozen gas pipes, grading lawn, kneading bread, cleaning black-boards, ringing bell, watchman, running washing-machines, errands, pruning trees, dusting Professor Harvey’s insects; all twelve cents an hour, Priddy. The list of my chores for last year. Possibilities for you, my boy!” “Oh, I see!” “Feel better, now?” I smiled and then said, feelingly, to my roommate: “Thropper, you’d be worth ten dollars an hour in a hospital bracing up discouraged financiers; that you would!” “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered, pleased with what I said. “I’ve been up against it myself, Priddy. I understand, that’s all.” “Have been up against it?” I gasped. “Thropper, I guess you should put it in the present tense: _are_ up against it. Here is your fifteen cents, your present fortune. What are you going to do about money?” “Oh, me?” He felt under his table and brought out to view a tin lunch box made to resemble a bundle of school books. “I’ll have that filled on Saturday morning at six o’clock, put on these--” he rumbled behind his clothes-screen and threw a pair of dirty overalls on the floor and a soft, black shirt--“and go to my regular Saturday job in the glass factory. A dollar and fifty for the day; regular as the week comes around. That’s the way I take care of myself, Priddy!” “But when I work for the University I don’t get cash, do I, Thropper?” “No,” he said, “it goes on your bill. But you won’t find it hard to get along without money here,” he said, “there isn’t much that you can buy, outside of clothes and a lecture in the village once in a while. You’ll soon become accustomed to getting along without cash, all right.”