THE CRIME

He was walking along Quincy St. with one foot in the gutter and one on the curb stone. His hat was gray and somewhat battered. His coat was hanging loose and unbuttoned. He seemed to count his steps as he climbed and sank at each irregular stride.

He came to an Iron fence. The regularity of it intrigued him. After a feverish search about the sidewalk he found a small stick. Now he walked along the other side of the walk, tapping every other bar with his stick. The metallic clicking brought a gleam of satisfaction to his deep, intelligent eyes. Ah, this indeed is pleasure!

At regular intervals he lays aside his battered hat and loose, gray overcoat to lecture profoundly before eager young men, for he knows perhaps more about a certain literature than any other living man.

There is a Dunster House Sophomore who had a deep and lasting affection for all other Sophomores. That is, until a few weeks ago. Now there is an Adams House Sophomore whom he simply can't abide. Every time the D.H.S. sees the A.H.S. the D.H.S.'s upper lip curls into a nasty sneer. The A.H.S. grins with complacent satisfaction. They do not speak.

Some say that it's all concerning a matter that happened in a lecture room where one was a monitor, Others say that it's due to a mess surrounding a very rare library book. There are even some who lay the blame to a certain parking space at a dance one night. But they're all wrong.

The real trouble centers around something in a dining hall. She comes from the south. She used to be a waitress in Dunster House, but for some inexplicable reason the authorities say fit to move her. Now she is a waitress in Adams. She is a very intelligent girl, because she has learned the wisdom in the old saying, "When in Rome, do the Romans."