"I've never had any mathematics or science, and I write a very bad hand."
"That's not unusual," St. Peter told him. "But, by the way, how did you happen to come to me instead of to the registrar?"
"I just got in this morning, and your name was the only one here I knew. I read an article by you in a magazine, about Fray Marcos. Father Duchene said it was the only thing with any truth in it he'd read about our country down there."
The Professor had noticed before that whenever he wrote for popular periodicals it got him into trouble. "Well, what are your plans, young man? And, by the way, what is your name?"
"Tom Outland."
The Professor repeated it. It seemed to suit the boy exactly.
"How old are you?"
"I'm twenty." He blushed, and St. Peter supposed he was dropping off a few years, but he found afterward that the boy didn't know exactly how old he was. "I thought I might get a tutor and make up my mathematics this summer."
"Yes, that could be managed. How are you fixed for money?"
Outland's face grew grave. "I'm rather awkwardly fixed. If you were to write to Tarpin, New Mexico, to inquire about me, you'd find I have money in the bank there, and you'd think I had been deceiving you. But it's money I can't touch while I'm able-bodied. It's in trust for someone else. But I've got three hundred dollars without any string on it, and I'm hoping to get work here. I've been bossing a section gang all winter, and I'm in good condition. I'll do anything but wait table. I won't do that." On this point he seemed to feel strongly.