But there were half a dozen professors still in their homes around the campus, and it was pointed out to them that the coming honor to one lately of their number reflected glory upon the college and upon them, and that they should take official action.
It was also suggested that for photographic purposes they should wear their academic robes, caps, and hoods.

To these suggestions, with alacrity--partly because they all loved Doctor Gilman and partly because they had never been photographed by a moving-picture machine--they all agreed.

So it came about that when the ambassador, hot and cross and dusty stepped off the way-train at Stillwater station he found to his delighted amazement a red carpet stretching to a perfectly new automobile, a company of the local militia presenting arms, a committee, consisting of the mayor in a high hat and white gloves and three professors in gowns and colored hoods, and the Stillwater silver Cornet Band playing what, after several repetitions, the ambassador was graciously pleased to recognize as his national anthem.
The ambassador forgot that he was hot and cross.

He forgot that he was dusty.

His face radiated satisfaction and perspiration.