"Gee!" said Mr. Sims, pausing a moment and leaning on his stick, "were the gates only as big as that?"
We began to walk up the avenue.
"I thought there were more trees to it than these," said Mr. Sims.
"Yes," I answered. "You often said that the avenue was a quarter of a mile long."
"So the thing used to be," he murmured.
Then Mr. Sims looked at the campus. "A dinky looking little spot," he said.
"Didn't you say," I asked, "that the Arts Building was built of white marble?"
"Always thought it was," he answered. "Looks like rough cast from here, doesn't it."
"We'll have to go in and see the President, I suppose," continued Mr. Sims. He said it with regret. Something of his undergraduate soul had returned to his body. Although he had never seen the President (this one) in his life, and had only read of his appointment some five years before in the newspapers, Mr. Sims was afraid of him.
"Now, I tell you," he went on. "We'll just make a break in and then a quick get-away. Don't let's get anchored in there, see? If the old fellow gets talking, he'll go on for ever. I remember the way it used to be when a fellow had to go in to see Prexy in my time. The old guy would start mooning away and quoting Latin and keep us there half the morning."