breezy self-assurance, his unobtrusive well-fitting clothes, his doggy pipe.
Keay held forth in a rollicking monologue for fifteen minutes or more. "Now, you take my advice. Freshman," said Keay at one stage, "and look for a room in one of those wooden joints on Clark Street. Lay off those private dorms on Hill Place. They'll take the gold right out of your teeth over there. And the guys that room there—say, all they bring to college is a brush apiece to paint the campus red with. Half of 'em flunk out in February the first year. A bunch of millionaire meat packers' darlings and sons of big potato chip men from Saratoga. Get a quiet room and study your first year. Freshman. That way you get a drag with all the profs and they'll let you get away with murder the rest of your college course. You've established a reputation, see?"
At eleven o'clock Harold retired to his berth stuffed to the ears with advice, good, bad and indifferent. He had begun to think that the Freshman Bible, which was supposed to contain all an entering man should know about Tate and which he carried safely in his inside pocket, should be reedited by David Keay, III.
Harold did not sleep well that night. It took him nearly half an hour to disrobe within
