have to write themes in the exam, but we can’t do anything about that here. You ’re all getting by on your themes, anyway, are n’t you?”
“Yeah,” the listening quartet answered in unison, Larry Stillwell adding dubiously, “Well, I’m get¬ ting C’s.”
“Larry,” said Carl in cold contempt, “you ’re a goddamn liar. I saw a B on one of your themes the other day and an A on another. What are you always pulling that low-brow stuff for?”
Larry had the grace to blush. “Aw,” he ex¬ plained in some confusion, “my prof’s full of hooey. He does n’t know a C theme from an A one. He makes me sick. He—”
“Aw, shut up!” Freddy Dickson shouted. “Let’s get going; let’s get going. We gotta learn this poetry. Damn! I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t crack the book till two days ago.”
Pudge took charge again. “Close your gabs, everybody,” he commanded sternly. “There’s no sense in going over the prose lit. You can do that better by yourselves. God knows I’m not going to waste my time telling you bone-heads what Car¬ lyle means by a hero. If you don’t know Odin from Mohammed by this time, you can roast in Dante’s hell for all of.me. Now listen; the prof said that they were going to make us place lines, and, of course, they ’ll expect us to know what the
