Barefoot Boy with Cheek Page 2

  The architecture at Minnesota is very distinctive, and thereby hangs a tale. It goes back a good many years, back to the time when the mighty, sprawling University was just an infant. At that time Art Chaff, the son of a wealthy Minneapolis flour miller named Elihu Chaff, was expelled from Harvard for playing buck euchre on the Sabbath. Old Elihu was deeply incensed by the indignity. He was determined that Art should go to college, and, moreover, to a bigger college than Harvard.

  So Elihu went to work on the University of Minnesota campus. He erected twenty buildings. They all looked like grain elevators, for that is what Elihu intended to use them for after Art had been graduated. But Elihu never fulfilled his plan.

  One week end Elihu went fishing, accompanied only by an Indian guide named Ralph Duckhonking. They went into a deep forest, and after two days Duckhonking came out alone. He was wearing Elihu’s suit and carrying all of his valuables. He said he knew nothing about Elihu’s disappearance. Duckhonking was indicted for murder, but he was never tried because it was impossible to obtain twelve English-speaking veniremen in that judicial district. Duckhonking walked about free until he died more than twenty years later of nepotism. This case later became famous as the Crédit Mobilier scandal.

  Elihu’s elevators, therefore, remained part of the University. In fact, out of respect to Elihu, all the buildings which were subsequently erected on the campus were built to resemble grain elevators.

  But this was no time to be gawking about the campus. I had things to do. First I had to see Mr. Ingelbretsvold, my freshman adviser, about making out a program of studies for the year. Obtaining directions from a friendly upperclassman who sold me a freshman button, freshman cap, subscription to Ski-U-Mah, the campus honor magazine, a map of the campus, and a souvenir score card of last year’s home-coming game, I proceeded to the office of Mr. Ingelbretsvold.

  A line of freshmen stood in front of his door. I knew how they must feel, about to embark on this great adventure, and I could not help cheerily hollering “Halloa” to them. They stoned me in an amiable fashion.

  At last a voice came from behind the door bidding me come in. How my heart beat as I opened the door and trod across the luxuriant burlap rug to Mr. Ingelbretsvold’s desk.

  “My name is Asa Hearthrug and I’ve come for advice,” I said.

  He stood up and smiled at me kindlily. “Sit down, young man,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said, making a low curtsey.

  “Well, it’s certainly a nice day.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Almost twelve inches of rain since sunup.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he said. “It’s a nice rain. It will help the potato crop.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “it should wash out every potato in Minnesota.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he said. “It will get rid of those damn potatoes. People are eating altogether too many potatoes. But enough of this meteorological chitchat. Let’s get down to business. First of all, I want you to know that I’m your friend.”

  I licked his hand gratefully.

  “You are about to enter a new phase of your life. I wonder whether you realize just how important this is.”

  “Oh, I do, sir, I do,” I exclaimed.

  “Shut up when I’m talking,” he said. “Now, I have a little story that I like to tell to freshmen to impress them with the importance of college. I have had a great many students who were graduated from Minnesota and went out to take their places in the world come back after many years and say to me, ‘Mr. Ingelbretsvold, I can never thank you enough for that little story you told me when I first came to the University.’ Yes, young man, this story has helped a great many people, and I hope it will help you.”

  “So tell it already,” I said.

  “Well, sir, when I was a boy I had a good friend named Kyrie Eleison. We went through grade school and high school together, and on the night we were graduated from high school I said to him, ‘Well, Kyrie, what are you going to do now?’

  “‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a chance to get a job in a nepotism business in North Dakota.’

  “‘Kyrie,’ I told him, ‘don’t take it. Come to college with me, or else you’ll always regret it.’

  “But he didn’t choose to take my advice. I went to college, and he took the job. Yes, he did well at his work. By the time he was thirty he had seventy-five million dollars, and he has been getting richer ever since. He built a fine big house in which he holds the most lavish social affairs in the whole Northwest.

  “Well, sir, one night I was invited to a party at Kyrie’s house. I rented a suit and went. The house was filled with prominent people. A hundred-and-twenty-piece orchestra was playing. When we went in for dinner the table groaned with all sorts of expensive delicacies. And at the head of the table sat Kyrie, the monarch of all he surveyed.

  “But during the course of the dinner a well-dressed young woman leaned over and said to Kyrie, ‘Who was the eighth avatar of Vishnu?’ and Kyrie, for all his wealth and power, did not know the answer.”

  “How ghastly!” I cried, throwing up my hands.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Ingelbretsvold. “You will find that sort of thing all through life. People come up to you on the street and say, ‘Does a paramecium beat its flagella?’ or ‘How many wheels has a fiacre?’ or ‘When does an oryx mate?’ and if you have not been to college, you simply cannot answer them.”

  “But that cannot happen to me. I am going to the University,” I said.

  “Ah, but it can,” Mr. Ingelbretsvold answered. “It happens to many who go to college.”

  “But how?”

  “You see, my boy, a great many people go to college to learn how to do something. They study medicine or law or engineering, and when they are through they know how to trepan a skull or where to get a writ of estoppel or how to find the torque of a radial engine. But just come up to them and ask how many caliphs succeeded Mohammed or who wrote Baby Duncan’s Whistling Lung and they stare at you blankly.”

  I shuddered. “Oh, please, Mr. Ingelbretsvold,” I begged, “what must I do?”

  “You must do like I tell you. You must let college make you a well-rounded-out personality. That is the chief function and purpose of this University: to make you a well-rounded-out personality. Now you get out a pencil and paper and write down the names of the courses I am going to give you. If you follow this program you will find yourself a well-rounded-out personality.”

  I took out a pencil and poised it over my dickey bosom.

  “Ready. Here they are: Races and Cultures of Arabia, Egypt, and North Africa; Ethnology of India; History of Architecture; Greek; Latin; Sixteenth-Century Literature; Seventeenth-Century Literature; Eighteenth-Century Litterature; Nineteenth-Century Literature; Twentieth-Century Literature; Geography; Ancient History; Medieval History; Modern History; Ancient Philosophy; Modern Philosophy; Contemporary Philosophy; History of Religion; American Government; British Government; Chinese Government; Japanese Government; Lett Government; First Aid; Public Health; General Psychology; Psychology of Learning; Psychology of Advertising; Psychology of Literature; Psychology of Art; Psychology of Behavior; Animal Psychology; Abnormal Psychology; Norwegian; Swedish; Danish; French; German; Russian; Italian; Lett; Urban Sociology; Rural Sociology; Juvenile Sociology; Statistical Sociology; Criminology; Penology, Elocution; Speech Pathology; and Canoe Paddling.

  “That will do for a start. As you go into these courses you will find others that will interest you too.”

  “And these will make me a well-rounded-out personality?” I asked.

  He laughed gently. “Oh no, my boy. That is only a small but essential part of rounding out your personality. There is the social life too.” He nudged me and winked. “A fellow can have a good time here.”

  “Sir,” I said, and blushed.

  “But you’ll soon find out all about that. Now, one more thing. In addition to the work you do for these courses I have named you should do a lot of reading tha
t has not been assigned in your classes. Do you read anything now?”

  “A mystery story now and then,” I confessed.

  “Oh, have you read Rex Snout’s latest, The Case of the Gelded Gnu?”

  “No, but I read the one before that, The Case of the Missing Lynx.”

  “I missed that one. What was it about?”

  “Well, a horribly mutilated corpse is found on the railroad tracks near Buffalo. This corpse is in such a state that it is impossible to identify it or even to tell whether it is a man or a woman. The story is concerned almost entirely with trying to establish the identity of the corpse. In the end it is discovered that it is not a corpse at all, but a pan of waffle batter that fell out of the window of a New York Central dining car.”

  “How interesting. Well, I guess that’s all the time I can give you. Others are waiting,” he said, taking cognizance of the stones they were throwing through the window.

  “Just one more thing, Mr. Ingelbretsvold,” I said. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I think I would like to be a writer when I grow up. Will the program you made out for me help me to be a writer?”

  “Why, bless you, child,” Mr. Ingelsbretsvold said, “you follow that program and there’s nothing else you can be.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Pommes de terre sont bon. —MOLIÈRE

  The university of minnesota builds not only minds; it also builds bodies. Before you can enter the University you must undergo a thorough and rigorous examination at the Student Health Service. Minnesota has one of the finest health services in the country. Here prominent doctors, serving without compensation, give unstintingly of their time and wisdom that youth of Minnesota might be strong.

  I shall always remember, with a mixture of gratitude and admiration, the day I went through the Health Service for my examination. I was extensively examined by not one, but many doctors, each an expert in his particular branch of medicine.

  First I was sent to the bone surgeon. He was sitting at his desk reading a copy of Film Fun. “How many arms and legs you got?” he asked, without putting down the Film Fun.

  “Two,” I answered.

  “Two altogether?”

  “No sir, two of each.”

  “O.K. You’re all right. Go ahead,” he said, still looking at the Film Fun.

  I proceeded to the office of the heart doctors. Because heart examination is a delicate, involved process, two doctors are assigned to that duty. When I came into the office, they were standing by the window dropping paper bags filled with water on pedestrians.

  “I had an interesting case the other day,” said one to the other. “I was listening to a kid’s heart and it was the damnedest thing I ever heard. It didn’t thump. It chimed in three notes.”

  “What do you know?” said the second. “What caused that?”

  “I couldn’t find out for a long time,” answered the first. “It wasn’t until I went way back into the kid’s history that I found the solution. His mother was frightened by an NBC station break.”

  “Well, what do you know?” said the second. “Say, I heard of another interesting case yesterday. Dr. Curette in plastic surgery told me about it. A man came in to see him. The fellow didn’t have a nose.”

  “No nose?” said the first. “How did he smell?”

  “Terrible,” said the second.

  “Oh, Harold,” said the first, “you’re more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

  I cleared my throat. They turned and noticed me for the first time.

  “I’ve come for a heart examination,” I said.

  “You look all right. Go ahead,” they said.

  They went over to the sink to fill some more bags with water.

  My next stop was the weighing room. I stepped on the scale, my weight was recorded, and a doctor said, “You make friends easily. You are a good worker although you are a little inclined to put things off. You are going to make a long trip on water.”

  I gave him a penny and proceeded to the abdominal clinic. The doctor was sitting at a table building a boat in a bottle. “Ever have to get up in the middle of the night?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” I answered.

  “Hmm,” he said. “I’m going to have a little trouble with the mizzenmast. Know anything about boats?”

  “Some,” I confessed modestly.

  “I love boats,” he said. “I love the sea. Right now I’d love to be on a trim little schooner hauling a cargo of oscars from the levant. I love the good feel of a stout ship on a rough sea. Perhaps a nor’wester would blow up, and all the hearty mates would be on the deck pulling together while the grizzled old skipper stood on the bridge and yelled his orders: ‘Keelhaul the bosun! Jettison the supercargo!’”

  “My, you certainly know a lot about boats,” I said admiringly.

  He lowered his eyes. “I should. I was cuckold on the Yale crew in 1912. But enough of this. So you have to get up in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes sir. You see, my sister Morningstar keeps company with an engineer on the Natchez, Mobile, and Duluth railroad. About a year ago he got put on a night run, and Morningstar never used to get to see him. She complained so much that he finally had a sidetrack built into our back yard.

  “Now when he comes by at night he runs the train into our back yard for a while. I have to get up in the middle of the night and go out and keep his steam up while he comes in the house and trifles with Morningstar.”

  But he wasn’t listening. He was fiddling with his boat in the bottle. “Wonder which side is starboard,” he mumbled.

  I left quietly for the chiropodist’s office.

  The doctor was sitting behind his desk playing “Your Feets Too Big” on a jew’s-harp when I came in.

  “How did you get here?” he asked.

  “Why, I walked.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “your feet are all right. You’re lucky. There was a girl in here the other day whose feet were in terrible shape. She had been wearing such high heels that she constantly leaned forward at a forty-five-degree angle. Gave the impression of being on a ski slide.”

  “What did you do for her?” I asked.

  “Cut off her legs, naturally. She’s much happier now. She’s made a lot of new friends who affectionately call her ‘Shorty.’”

  I made as if to go.

  “Wait a minute. Know how I got interested in chiropody?”

  “No sir,” I said, for I did not.

  He giggled. “I got webbed feet, that’s why.” He leaped up from his chair and ran around the room quacking wildly. Water was rolling off his back.

  Now I went to the last office, the psychiatrist’s. He was driving golf balls through the window. An angry crowd was collecting outside. “Any insanity in your family?” he asked.

  “Oh, not really insanity,” I said. “Maybe some of them act a little funny sometimes, but I wouldn’t call it insanity. Uncle Bert, for instance, he’s in Washington now circulating a petition to free Sacco and Vanzetti.

  “And Cousin Roger. He’s got a little farm near Des Moines. Every day he hauls his produce to Des Moines in a square-wheeled cart.

  “And Uncle Donald. He started a million-dollar suit against the Reynolds Tobacco Company last year. He says he got a hump on his back from smoking Camels.

  “And Aunt Yetta. Every time she needs a little money, she pulls out a tooth and puts it under her pillow.

  “And then there’s Cousin Booker, who thinks he’s got a diamond in his navel, and Aunt Melanie who burns churches, and Uncle Alex who hangs on the wall and says he’s a telephone, and Uncle Milton who has been standing in a posthole since 1924.

  “But I wouldn’t call that insanity exactly, would you, Doctor?”

  “Oh, certainly not,” he said. “They’re probably just a little tired. Well, my boy, the examination is all over. Let me congratulate you. You are now a student at the University of Minnesota.”

  Tears filled my eyes and my throat was all choked up.
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  “Don’t try to talk,” said the doctor. “Just hold me tight. I want to remember you always, just like this.”

  In a little while I was all right, and I left, hoping with all my heart that I would prove worthy of the consideration that my new alma mater had lavished upon me.

  CHAPTER V

  Qui est dans le corridor? —SAINT-SAENS

  After I left the Health Service I went for a walk. I wanted to think about all the wonderful things that had happened to me. I could scarcely believe that in just a few days I was going to walk into a university class, a belonger, a cog in a great machine where everyone puts his nose to the grindstone and pulls together. I glowed all over as I walked upon the handsome promenade called fraternity row.

  Minnesota has one of the finest fraternity rows in the country. Behind luxuriant, well-kept lawns stand the ornate but tasteful fronts of the fraternity houses. Doric columns adorn their façades, and through the leaded panes of their windows I could see gay, well-dressed young men lounging casually in the living rooms. My fellow students, I thought rapturously. I gave a little jump in my unbridled joy. As I landed, two cunningly hinged sidewalk stones gave way, and I hurtled into a pit below.

  “We got one,” someone yelled. Immediately two youths beset me and tied me with baling wire. Then I was carried through a devious tunnel into the living room of a fraternity house. “We got one, Roger,” announced the bearers.

  The one called Roger was sitting at a table playing Michigan rummy with three others. “O.K.,” he said. The others drew guns, and each one walked over to a door. “Untie him,” Roger commanded.

  The two who had brought me in produced an acetylene torch and loosed me. Roger pulled out a buffer and dental floss and got his teeth ready. Then he smiled. “I’m Roger Hailfellow, the president. I’m certainly glad that you decided on this fraternity. Yes sir, you can’t find a better fraternity than Alpha Cholera. How about that, fellows?” he asked, turning to the three who were guarding the exits.