At eight o’clock a group of students, with clean collars and well-pressed clothes, came down from the University building, each carrying an ironing-board, to be sold in some nearby town. This ironing-board was entirely unlike every other ironing-board invented by man or woman. It was the product of the fertile and practical mind of our mathematical professor; its chief virtues being, as described in the prospectus, that “it stands up like a soldier, kneels down like a camel, and folds up like a jack-knife!” With all its novelty, it was extremely practical and, the agents reported, sold well. A large number of useful citizens are out in the serviceable centres of life, who, if they ever choose a coat of arms will have to adorn their shield with an ironing-board--“rampant,” for to it they owe much of the financial lubrication which smoothed their passage through the school. Hurrying after the same train were three young women, each armed with a book, on their way to make fifty per cent from literary householders. At different hours of the morning other students went to the village where every sort of task from house-cleaning to raking up dead gardens was undertaken. Evangelical University was at work. The head waiter, Brock, came into the room as I was cleaning it and said: “Priddy, has any one been in after the tub?” “The tub?” “Yes, and the rubbing board!” “I didn’t know those things were here.” “Your roommate and I have a whole laundry set on shares. Look in my room and you’ll see the irons; the flat-irons.” “No, the tub and the board are not here,” I reported, after a search. The tall German went into the hall, raised his voice in a great, resounding shout: “The wash tub! Who has it?” A door at the end of the hallway opened and a voice replied: “Just rinsing out my shirt, Brock. Have it in a jiffy!” A few minutes later Brock called to me from his room. When I presented myself before him, I discovered him with his sleeves rolled up, busily engaged in pouring hot water from a kettle over some shirts and handkerchiefs. “Any white things of yours, handkerchiefs or shirts, Priddy,” he announced, “might just as well go in with mine.” So we shared the wash that morning. After they had been rinsed, I carried them to the rear of the building and hung them on a double wire line where the gas-laden air from the sheep pastures hummed through them and the sun burned them dry in an hour.