It was a morning in early December. An unsealed letter lay on my table, a Christmas greeting to a mill friend. I had written it the previous night. When the morning dawned, I realized that I had not enough money with which to purchase a stamp for it. A feeling of utter miserableness took hold of me. There I stood, working my way through school successfully, from week to week without any difficulty, and yet when it came to forwarding a message of greeting to the outside world I was a pauper! That strong term mastered me. I knew that for the mere asking Thropper had a stamp waiting for me, but I resented the thought of charity, the humiliation of asking for the gift of a postage stamp. After chapel I went into the President’s office and on being shown in, made the following announcement. “Please, Doctor, I think I had better leave the University. It is no use!” “What is the matter now, young man?” he enquired, gently. “I’ve got to earn some cash, sir. You know that I shall never have any by working for the University; it all goes on my account. I need some clothes, and just at present I need a stamp. I haven’t handled any money since my three dollars was spent; it is almost three months since then.” “But you don’t have to run away from your education, do you?” asked the President, bending on me his searching eyes. “I thought you would stick to it!” “But what can I do, sir?” I demanded, “I am busy waiting on the table, and cannot leave the campus to earn money. I give all my spare time to the University. If I could work a week or two at outside tasks I might get some money on hand.” “There need be no trouble about that,” agreed the President. “Get some one to take your place in the dining-hall on Saturdays, and I will see if there are any jobs you can do.” The following morning, in chapel, the Dean read off my name as one of the students that the President wished to see, in his office. “There is a load of bricks on a siding of the brick-mill--you know where that is, of course,” he said. “Brock has taken the contract for loading a car at something or other a thousand--which means about twenty cents an hour, I believe. He is quite willing to take you with him on Saturday, if you care for the work.” Inwardly I thought of my frail muscles hurling rows of brick through the air on a winter’s day--and felt doubtful about the adventure, but the President was waiting for his answer, so I said hastily, “Anything at all, sir, that will bring me in a real, substantial piece of money. It will look big enough when I do see it, sir!” Thropper was eager to take a day off from the glass factory and so was able to take my place at the tables. I had a conference with Brock, relative to the proposed loading of the car of bricks. “Can you manage it?” he asked dubiously, scanning his eyes doubtfully over my frail physique.