The bartender pointed a long finger of condemnation at the proctor. "Nope," he stated with authority, "higher education don't pay." The issue was settled once and for all.

It had all started an hour before when the proctor had run almost the whole way from Cambridge. But he had caught the two o'clock at South Station. As he slumped in his seat, the last few breaths of life seemed to wheeze slowly in and out of his lungs. He had aged tremendously. His hands shook, and even when he spoke to the conductor, his voice whispered from a far away corner. It was no wonder that the N.Y., N.H. & H. hostess in her gray and red uniform led him forth from his seat like the Pied Piper with the magic words: "Grill Car in the rear."

Strength already flowed back to him as he watched his Martini being mixed. The bartender slid the glass towards him, then drew it back and whistled between his teeth. "Say, you're a student, ain't you?" The question upset the proctor. He thought of the pile of unread books on his desk and nodded. "Too bad, too bad," the bartender commented sadly. "We can't serve drinks to students. Company rules, you know."

The proctor winced but answered as brittley as possible. "I say, I'm not really a student. An undergraduate, that is. I live with them . . . a supervisor . . . you know, to see that everything goes right. Come, come, old man, I'm awfully thirsty."

Surveying him suspiciously, the bartender withdrew the drink farther and farther from reach. "You study, doncha? That's enough."

The proctor steadied himself for the last effort. His tongue moved and seemed to rub the inside of a clay bowl. "My God," he cried, "professors study, and don't tell me they can't buy a drink."

The bartender spoke with firmness. "Are you a professor?" There was silence. Then he laughed and patted the proctor's arm consolingly. "Nope," he stated authoritatively, "higher education don't pay."