The train stopped, and the Boy Scouts rushed forward to greet the man who stepped with sure tread from the car. Cameras clicked jerkily; the young shouted their welcome; reporters, notebook in hand, mused on childish love of deifying. The Bremen flyers were hailed with more ceremony, but with no more sincerity than was this man. If he received no key to the city; if no regal automobile waited him; if most of the Tremont Street crowds went their way unwitting, still the adulation and joy of greeting were present, and only the means for expressing them rightly won lacking.

For Tom Mix, he of the gigantic hat, he whose shadow has so often swept across the screen of the University, has come from Hollywood, and he has shown that the mania for handling big receptions in a big way is not a growth that flowers only in the adult mind. The germ is implanted in the child's first consciousness, and flourishes from that time on. But though the mature can claim no monopoly in its possession, they alone are able to release it install its dazzling light. The top hats, the mile-long parade, and the tons of confetti are theirs alone.