Professor Gaines had mentioned this Tate publication, but had added that it was "frivolous and frequently censorable—nothing in it for you, Lamb."
Harold read two of the fiction stories in "College Comedy," written by college-educated professional humorists, and found them disconcertingly full of flappers, cocktails, "necking" and rather ribald dancing parties. He decided that "College Comedy" grossly misrepresented both college and comedy and tossed it on the floor. Goodness knows, he wasn't going to college for the things this magazine, with its Parisian lady on the cover, portrayed as being the chief ingredients of a college education. Such frivolities surely had no part in the life of a big, popular figure such as, for instance, Chester Trask.
Harold's meditations were interrupted by the entrance into the car of a white-coated colored gentleman who swayed down the aisle intoning monotonously, "First call for dinner. First call for dinner." Harold had never eaten in a railway dining car. He had an intuition that it would be a betrayal of his inexperience if he arose at once and followed this dark Mercury of the food gods, though he was hungry. He therefore kept his seat while several others in the car ambled out. If there was a "first call," he argued, there would
