"Are you on your way to enter Tate now?" "Dusty" asked.
Harold shook his head.
"That's too bad," continued Tate's distinguished alumnus. "If you were, we could travel all the way together. I'm on my way to take up my job with the football coaching staff. What happened? Something the matter with the college entrance certificate from your prep school?"
Harold admitted that this was not the reason. Finally, having long awaited a sympathetic ear into which to pour the sad story, he told of his dashed hopes.
"Well, that's too bad," Rhoades agreed, when at last Harold had completed his lament. "You know, you really don't have to worry about money at Tate. That is, not much. I worked my way through. I even shined shoes for a while to get by. I started a bootblack stand on the campus, and another self-help student and I did the shining ourselves. But it was a flop that way. The boys didn't like having their shoes shined by classmates. It made them feel cheap somehow. So the other chap and I hired a couple of professional bootblacks, and then business was fine. We paid our help their wages and the rest was all velvet. The stunt went over so
