World's records mean nothing when Californians get together. Even Saturday's inclemency could not prevent three perfectly good marks from falling at the hands of the Westerners. Most renowned of sprinters, Charlie Paddock once more outdid himself, and doubtless smiled a bit as he showed the effete East why the headlines ungrammatically proclaim him as "the world's fastest human."

Harvard might be tempted merely to sigh contemplatively, and cock one eye on the tablets in the locker house that once announced records as good as the best. Young blood, young vigor, seriousness in sports . . . all very well, for those who still play with the zest of youth; here at Harvard, a tired savoir faire is said to have taken their place. Harvard might, indeed, merely sigh, or even yawn, if this were true, but, sadly enough for the erudite gentlemen who delight in classifying the University and all its contents with one clever phrase, not all the instinct of curiosity is purged by a dose of indifference. There are fire-engines and fireengines, but a whole laboratory class in Boylston will rush to the windows to watch one rush down Massachusetts Avenue (although some hint at ulterior motives for this interest). Airplanes are a commonplace; the single shells have been on the river for weeks; roadsters gleaming with nickel are not rare--still they attract the attention of undergraduates. And so, when Charlle Paddock comes to the Stadium this week, he need have no fear that his ninety-five records will attract only a handful of track men and a bored reporter. The Stadium will not give a hollow echo to the spikes, for herocpass, but some remnants of hero-worship are not to be destroyed even by a four-year course in indifference.