But a firm idea had been implanted in his soul; and a great gift given it. Each afternoon now, in the days that came before the snow, and while he should have been sprinting for his Alma Mater, he went out in the sparse woods beyond the field and ran and raced with his own spirit. This was the gift that had been given him. The idea was one of criticism. He began to see the poverty of this college scope, to deplore the lack of a real, free romanticism in its routine and aspirations. He longed for the opportunity to talk with Professor Deering. But the Professor taught only upperclassmen.
And then, Quincy thought of expressing his idea more vicariously. He worked a week on an essay that he entitled “College Cramps.” In it, he made reference to the grip of college routine and business on all the native energies of youth that should run wild; to the effort through team-work and club-work, to channel ebullience into a trough where college gods—cattle of iron and wood—could drink and guzzle. He sent his essay to the college literary magazine. It was sent back. Across the title page a witty editor had scribbled: “We’re sorry you have them, old man.”
Then the boy retouched his essay and mailed it to Professor Deering. Within, he enclosed a note stating that it had been rejected by the college paper. He hoped, however, that it would be read by the man who really had inspired it.
He heard nothing from Professor Deering. And soon after, he made a momentous journey to New York. But before this, he had found a friend.
V
His name was Garsted—Simon Garsted.
One day, Quincy crossed the campus with him. He had been a slight ways behind. He had overtaken Quincy.
“Aren’t you Burt of the freshman class?” he asked, introducing himself. He was a junior—an obscure one as far as college honors were concerned.
“I was at a tea, last Sunday, at Professor Deering’s house,” Garsted explained. “He read your paper aloud.”
“Did he?”