The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

The group broke into loud laughter. “Me, too,” said George Winsor when the noise had abated. “I thought that I was coming to a regular educational heaven, halls of learning and all that sort of thing. Why, it’s a farce. Here I am sporting a Phi Bete key, an honor student if you please, and all that I really know as a result of my college ‘education’ is the fine points of football and how to play poker. I don’t really know one damn thing about anything.”

The other men were Jack Lawrence and Pudge Jamieson. Jack was an earnest chap, serious and hard working but without a trace of brilliance. He, too, wore a Phi Beta Kappa key, and so did Pudge. Hugh was the only one of the group who had not won that honor; the fact that he was the only one who had won a letter was hardly, he felt, complete justification. His legs no longer seemed more important than his brains; in fact, when he had sprained a tendon and been forced to drop track, he had been genuinely pleased.

Pudge was quite as plump as he had been as a freshman and quite as jovial, but he did not tell so many smutty stories. He still persisted in crossing his knees in spite of the difficulties involved. When Winsor finished speaking, Pudge forced his legs into his favorite position for them and then twinkled at Winsor through his glasses.

“Right you are, George,” he said in his quick way. “I wear a Phi Bete key, too. We both belong to the world’s greatest intellectual fraternity, but what in hell do we know? We’ve all majored in English except Jack, and I’ll bet anyone of us can give the others an exam offhand that they can’t pass. I’m going to law school. I hope to God that I learn something there. I certainly don’t feel that I know anything now as a result of my four years of ‘higher education.’ ”

“Well, if you fellows feel that way,” said Hugh mournfully, “how do you suppose I feel? I made my first really good record last term, and that wasn’t any world beater. I’ve learned how to gamble and smoke and drink and pet in college, but that’s about all that I have learned. I’m not as fine as I was when I came here. I’ve been coarsened and cheapened; all of us have. I take things for granted that shocked me horribly once. I know that they ought to shock me now, but they don’t. I’ve made some friends and I’ve had a wonderful time, but I certainly don’t feel that I have got any other value out of college.”

Winsor could not sit still and talk. He filled his pipe viciously, lighted it, and then jumped up and leaned against the mantel. “I admit everything that’s been said, but I don’t believe that it is altogether our fault.” He was intensely in earnest, and so were his listeners. “Look at the faculty. When I came here I thought that they were all wise men because they were on the faculty. Well, I’ve found out otherwise. Some of them know a lot and can’t teach, a few of them know a lot and can teach, some of them know a little and can’t teach, and some of them don’t know anything and can’t explain c-a-t. Why, look at Kempton. That freshman, Larson, showed me a theme the other day that Kempton had corrected. It was full of errors that weren’t marked, and it was nothing in the world but drip. Even Larson knew that, but he’s the foxy kid; he wrote the theme about Kempton. All right⁠—Kempton gives him a B and tells him that it is very amusing. Hell of a lot Larson’s learning. Look at Kane in math. I had him when I was a freshman.”

“Me, too,” Hugh chimed in.

“ ’Nough said, then. Math’s dry enough, God knows, but Kane makes it dryer. He’s a born desiccator. He could make Hamlet as dry as calculus.”

“Right-o,” said Pudge. “But Mitchell could make calculus as exciting as Hamlet. It’s fifty-fifty.”

“And they fired Mitchell.” Jack Lawrence spoke for the first time. “I have that straight. The administration seems afraid of a man that can teach. They’ve made Buchanan a full professor, and there isn’t a man in college who can tell what he’s talking about. He’s written a couple of books that nobody reads, and that makes him a scholar. I was forced to take three courses with him. They were agony, and he never taught me a damn thing.”

“Most of them don’t teach you a damn thing,” Winsor exclaimed, tapping his pipe on the mantel. “They either tell you something that you can find more easily in a book, or just confuse you with a lot of ponderous lectures that put you to sleep or drive you crazy if you try to understand them.”

“There are just about a dozen men in this college worth listening to,” Hugh put in, “and I’ve got three of them this term. I’m learning more than I did in my whole three first years. Let’s be fair, though. We’re blaming it all on the profs, and you know damn well that we don’t study. All we try to do is to get by⁠—I don’t mean you Phi Betes; I mean all the rest of us⁠—and if we can put anything over on the profs we are tickled pink. We’re like a lot of little kids in grammar-school. Just look at the cheating that goes on, the copying of themes, and the cribbing. It’s rotten!”

Winsor started to protest, but Hugh rushed on. “Oh, I know that the majority of the fellows don’t consciously cheat; I’m talking about the copying of math problems and the using of trots and the paraphrasing of Literary Digest articles for themes and all that sort of thing. If more than half