He could not help seeing how the Freshmen looked at him, how the Sophomores jumped off the narrow campus walks to let him pass; he could not help knowing that he was the great man of his time, so that "The Great Harkless" came to be one of the traditions of the university.

He remembered the wild progress they made for him up the slope that morning at Winter Harbor, how the people baked on, and laughed, and clapped their hands.

But at the veranda edge he had noticed a little form disappearing around a corner of the building; a young girl running away as fast as she could.
"See there!" he said, as the tribe set him down, "You have frightened the populace." And Tom Meredith stopped shouting long enough to answer, "It's my little cousin, overcome with emotion.

She's been counting the hours till you came--been hearing of you from me and others for a good while; and hasn't been able to talk or think of anything else.

She's only fifteen, and the crucial moment is too much for her--the Great Harkless has arrived, and she has fled." He remembered other incidents of his greatness, of the glory that now struck him as rarely comical; he hoped he hadn't taken it too seriously then, in the flush of his youth.