How well I remember the last time I saw Andrew McGill! It was in the
dear old days at Rutgers, my last term. I was sitting over a book one
brilliant May afternoon, rather despondent--there came a rush up the
stairs and a thunder at the door. I knew his voice, and hurried to open.
Poor, dear fellow, he was just back from tennis; I never saw him look so
glorious. Tall and thin--he was always very thin, _see_ p. 219 and
_passim_--with his long, brown face and sparkling black eyes--I can see
him still rambling about the room in his flannels, his curly hair damp
on his forehead. "Buzzard," he said--he always called me Buzzard--"guess
what's happened?"
"In love again?" I asked.
He laughed. A bright, golden laugh--I can hear it still. His laughter
was always infectious.
"No," he said. "Dear silly old Buzzard, what do you think? I've won the
Sylvanus Stall fellowship."
I shall never forget that moment. It was very still, and in the college
garden, just under my window, I could hear a party of Canadian girls
deliciously admiring things. It was a cruel instant for me. I, too, in
my plodding way, had sent in an essay for the prize, but without telling
him. Must I confess it? I had never dared mention the subject for fear
he, too, would compete. I knew that if he did he was sure to win. O
petty jealousies, that seem so bitter now!
"Rude old Buzzard," he said in his bantering way, "you haven't
congratulated!"