The one thing of which Milt Daggett was certain was that now he had

managed to crawl into the engineering school, he must get his degree in

mechanical engineering. He was older than most of his classmates. He

must hurry. He must do four years' work in two.

There has never been a Freshman, not the most goggle-eyed and earnest of

them, who has seen less of classmates, thought less about "outside

activities," more grimly centered the universe about his work.

Milt had sold his garage, by mail, to Ben Sittka and Heinie Rauskukle.

He had enough money to get through two years, with economy. His life was

as simple and dull as it had been in Schoenstrom. He studied while he

cooked his scrappy meals; he pinned mathematical formulæ and mechanical

diagrams on the wall, and pored over them while he was dressing--or

while he was trying to break in the new shoes, which were beautiful,

squeaky, and confoundedly tight.

He was taking French and English and "composition-writing" in addition

to engineering, and he made out a schedule of life as humorlessly as a

girl grind who intends to be a Latin teacher. When he was not at work,

or furiously running and yanking chest-weights in the gymnasium, he was

attending concerts, lectures.

Studying the life about him, he had discovered that the best way to save

time was to avoid the lazy friendships of college; the pipe-smoking,

yawning, comfortable, rather heavy, altogether pleasant wondering about

"what'll we do next?" which occupies at least four hours a day for the

average man in college. He would have liked it, as he had liked long

talks about nothing with Bill McGolwey at the Old Home Lunch. But he

couldn't afford it. He had to be ready to---That was the point at which his reflections always came up with a jolt.

He was quite clear about the method of getting ready, but he hadn't the

slightest idea of what he was getting ready for. The moment he had

redecided to marry Claire, he saw that his only possible future would be

celibate machinery-installing in Alaska; and the moment he was content

with the prospect of an engineer's camp in Alaskan wilds, his thoughts

went crazily fluttering after Claire.

Despite his aloofness, Milt was not unpopular in his class. The

engineers had few of them the interest in dances, athletics, college

journalism, which distinguished the men in the academic course. They

were older, and more conscious of a living to earn. And Milt's cheerful,

"How's the boy?" his manner of waving his hand--as though to a good

customer leaving the Red Trail Garage with the generator at last

tamed--indicated that he was a "good fellow."

One group of collegians Milt did seek. It is true that he had been

genuine in scorning social climbers. But it is also true that the men

whom he sought to know were the university smart set. Their satisfaction

in his allegiance would have been lessened, however, had they known how

little he cared for what they thought of him, and with what cruel

directness he was using them as models for the one purpose of pleasing

Miss Claire Boltwood.




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