"Got your themes done?" he would inquire cheerfully.
And Tom would always mutter, when he was out of earshot: "He has got a crust!"
When I thought about Krebs at all,—and this was seldom indeed,—his manifest happiness puzzled me. Our cool politeness did not seem to bother him in the least; on the contrary, I got the impression that it amused him. He seemed to have made no friends. And after that first evening, memorable for its homesickness, he never ventured to repeat his visit to us.
One windy November day I spied his somewhat ludicrous figure striding ahead of me, his trousers above his ankles. I was bundled up in a new ulster,—of which I was secretly quite proud,—but he wore no overcoat at all.
"Well, how are you getting along?" I asked, as I overtook him.
He made clear, as he turned, his surprise that I should have addressed him at all, but immediately recovered himself.
"Oh, fine," he responded. "I've had better luck than I expected. I'm correspondent for two or three newspapers. I began by washing windows, and doing odd jobs for the professors' wives." He laughed. "I guess that doesn't strike you as good luck."
He showed no resentment at my patronage, but a self-sufficiency that made my sympathy seem superfluous, giving the impression of an inner harmony and content that surprised me.
"I needn't ask how you're getting along," he said….
At the end of the freshman year we abandoned Mrs. Bolton's for more desirable quarters.