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He climbed to the top of East Rock, whence he could see the Yale buildings like the towers of Oxford, and see Long Island Sound, and the white glare of Long Island beyond the water. He marveled that Axelbrod of the cottonwood country was looking across an arm of the Atlantic to New York state. He noticed a freshman on a bench at the edge of the rock, and he became irritated. The freshman was Gilbert Washburn, the snob, the dilettante, of whom Ray Gribble had once said: “That guy is the disgrace of the class. He doesn’t go out for anything, high stand or Dwight Hall or anything else. Thinks he’s so doggone much better than the rest of the fellows that he doesn’t associate with anybody. Thinks he’s literary, they say, and yet he doesn’t even heel the ‘Lit,’ like the regular literary fellows! Got no time for a loafing, mooning snob like that. ”

As Knute stared at the unaware Gil, whose profile was fine in outline against the sky, he was terrifically public-spirited and disapproving and that sort of moral thing. Though Gil was much too well dressed, he seemed moodily discontented.

“What he needs is to vork in a threshing crew and sleep in the hay,” grumbled Knute almost in the virtuous manner of Gribble. “Then he vould know when he vas vell off, and not look like he had the earache. Pff!” Gil Washburn rose, trailed toward Knute, glanced at him, sat down on Knute’s bench.

“Great view!” he said. His smile was eager.

That smi
le symbolized to Knute all the art of life he had come to college to find. He tumbled out of his moral attitude with ludicrous haste, and every wrinkle of his weathered face creased deep as he answered:

“Yes: I t’ink the Acropolis must be like this here. ”

“Say, look here, Axelbrod; I’ve been thinking about you. ”

“Yas?”

“We ought to know each other. We two are the class scandal. We came here to dream, and these busy little goats like Atchison and Giblets, or whatever your roommate’s name is, think we’re fools not to go out for marks. You may not agree with me, but I’ve decided that you and I are precisely alike. ”

“What makes you t’ink I come here to dream?” bristled Knute.

“Oh, I used to sit near you at Commons and hear you try to quell old Atchison whenever he got busy discussing the reasons for coming to college. That old, moth-eaten topic! I wonder if Cain and Abel didn’t discuss it at the Eden Agricultural College. You know, Abel the mark-grabber, very pious and high stand, and Cain wanting to read poetry. ”

“Yes,” said Knute, “and I guess Prof. Adam say, ‘Cain, don’t you read this poetry; it von’t help you in algebry. ’”

“Of course. Say, wonder if you’d like to look at this volume of Musset I was sentimental enough to lug up here today. Picked it up when I was abroad last year. ”

From his pocket Gil drew such a book as Knute had never seen before, a slender volume, in a strange language, bound in hand-tooled crushed levant, an effeminate bibelot over which the prairie farmer gasped with luxurious pleasure. The book almost vanished in his big hands. With a timid forefinger he stroked the levant, ran through the leaves.

“I can’t read it, but that’s the kind of book I alvays t’ought there must be some like it,” he sighed.

“Listen!” cried Gil. “Ysaye is playing up at Hartford tonight. Let’s go hear him. We’ll trolley up. Tried to get some of the fellows to come, but they thought I was a nut. ”