possibility.
Further in an educational vein, he expressed his
determination that I should not suffer from the handicap - of having been born rich. His message was that although he would gladly pay my tuition fees and board, he was stopping my pocket money for my own good.
- Therefore, if I wished-as he hoped I did-to join a Final Club, to go cheer Harvard at football games, to take young eligible ladies to Locke-Ober's, etc., I would have to seek gainful employment. All of this was, of course, to teach me Emersonian self-reliance. For which I thanked him politely. - Upon my return to Cambridge for sophomore year, I went straight to the Student Employment Center and found that the really lucrative jobs had already gone to scholarship
students who needed the dough more than I. Thus, I could not have the enlightening experience of washing plates or dishing out mashed potatoes.
Just when things looked bleakest, however, I ran into
Master Finley in the courtyard. When I told him why I was back so early, he commended my father's desire to inculcate
good Yankee values. Surprisingly, as if he had nothing better to do, he marched me straight to the Eliot House library, where he persuaded Ned Devlin, the head librarian, to sign me on as one• of his assistants.
Anyway, I've got this really good deal. Three nights a
week I get seventy-five cents an hour for just sitting at a desk from seven till midnight watching guys read books.
Actually, Master Finley must have known what he was doing, because the job is so undemanding that, for lack of something better to do, I study.
Once in a great while, a guy interrupts me to take out a book-so I rarely have to look up from the page- except if somebody's talking too loud and I have to shut him up.
But last night was different. Something actually happened in the Eliot House library.
-At about nine o'clock I lifted my eyes just to survey the scene. The place was dotted with studying preppies in their usual uniform, button-down shirts and chinos.
But at a table in the far corner I noticed something
strange on the back of a well-built guy. It was, I thought, my own jacket. Or, more accurately, my own former jacket. Normally I wouldn't know the difference, but this was a tweed job with leather buttons that my folks had brought me from Harrods in London. There weren't many of those around. -
Not that this in itself should be surprising. After all, I
had sold it last spring to that famous used-clothes merchant, Joe Keezer. He's a Harvard institution, and most of my friends, when in need of extra cash for such necessities as ears, liquor, and club dues, have flogged their fashionable rags to old Joe.
But 1 don't know a single guy who ever bought from him. I mean, it doesn't work that way. So, strictly in my professional capacity as librarian, I was confronted with a problem. For possibly, indeed quite probably, there was an infiltrator in the library disguised as a preppie.
The guy was good-looking---dark and handsome. But he was a little too kempt. I mean, although the room was kind of stuffy, not only did he keep the jacket on, but I could see he didn't even open up his collar. Also, he seemed to be cramming like a demon. He was buried in his book, moving only now and then to check a dictionary. -
Now, all of this is not against the law. And yet it's not the norm for anyone I knew in Eliot House. And so I figured I had better keep my eyes on this possible interloper. -
At eleven-forty-five, I usually start extinguishing lights to give the guys a hint that I am closing shop. By chance last night the library was already empty-except for this stranger in my former jacket. This gave me a chance to solve
the mystery.
I casually approached his table, pointed toward the large lamp in the middle, and asked if he minded if I shut it off. He looked up, startled, and said, kind of
apologetically, that he hadn't realized it was closing time.
When I answered that by
Further in an educational vein, he expressed his
determination that I should not suffer from the handicap - of having been born rich. His message was that although he would gladly pay my tuition fees and board, he was stopping my pocket money for my own good.
- Therefore, if I wished-as he hoped I did-to join a Final Club, to go cheer Harvard at football games, to take young eligible ladies to Locke-Ober's, etc., I would have to seek gainful employment. All of this was, of course, to teach me Emersonian self-reliance. For which I thanked him politely. - Upon my return to Cambridge for sophomore year, I went straight to the Student Employment Center and found that the really lucrative jobs had already gone to scholarship
students who needed the dough more than I. Thus, I could not have the enlightening experience of washing plates or dishing out mashed potatoes.
Just when things looked bleakest, however, I ran into
Master Finley in the courtyard. When I told him why I was back so early, he commended my father's desire to inculcate
good Yankee values. Surprisingly, as if he had nothing better to do, he marched me straight to the Eliot House library, where he persuaded Ned Devlin, the head librarian, to sign me on as one• of his assistants.
Anyway, I've got this really good deal. Three nights a
week I get seventy-five cents an hour for just sitting at a desk from seven till midnight watching guys read books.
Actually, Master Finley must have known what he was doing, because the job is so undemanding that, for lack of something better to do, I study.
Once in a great while, a guy interrupts me to take out a book-so I rarely have to look up from the page- except if somebody's talking too loud and I have to shut him up.
But last night was different. Something actually happened in the Eliot House library.
-At about nine o'clock I lifted my eyes just to survey the scene. The place was dotted with studying preppies in their usual uniform, button-down shirts and chinos.
But at a table in the far corner I noticed something
strange on the back of a well-built guy. It was, I thought, my own jacket. Or, more accurately, my own former jacket. Normally I wouldn't know the difference, but this was a tweed job with leather buttons that my folks had brought me from Harrods in London. There weren't many of those around. -
Not that this in itself should be surprising. After all, I
had sold it last spring to that famous used-clothes merchant, Joe Keezer. He's a Harvard institution, and most of my friends, when in need of extra cash for such necessities as ears, liquor, and club dues, have flogged their fashionable rags to old Joe.
But 1 don't know a single guy who ever bought from him. I mean, it doesn't work that way. So, strictly in my professional capacity as librarian, I was confronted with a problem. For possibly, indeed quite probably, there was an infiltrator in the library disguised as a preppie.
The guy was good-looking---dark and handsome. But he was a little too kempt. I mean, although the room was kind of stuffy, not only did he keep the jacket on, but I could see he didn't even open up his collar. Also, he seemed to be cramming like a demon. He was buried in his book, moving only now and then to check a dictionary. -
Now, all of this is not against the law. And yet it's not the norm for anyone I knew in Eliot House. And so I figured I had better keep my eyes on this possible interloper. -
At eleven-forty-five, I usually start extinguishing lights to give the guys a hint that I am closing shop. By chance last night the library was already empty-except for this stranger in my former jacket. This gave me a chance to solve
the mystery.
I casually approached his table, pointed toward the large lamp in the middle, and asked if he minded if I shut it off. He looked up, startled, and said, kind of
apologetically, that he hadn't realized it was closing time.
When I answered that by
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