The Crime

The great crowd was hushed. Ushers were still showing last minute arrivals to their seats, but nearly every place was taken: row on row of Harvard men, many of them accompanied by ladies, waiting in tense expectancy. It wouldn't be long now until Harry Emerson Fosdick mounted the pulpit of Memorial Church. Down in front, ideally situated for the coming spectacle, were two rows of seats, reserved for the President of the University and prominent guests, but as yet unoccupied.

It was toward these that the little Freshman rushed, Thoughtless fool, he had neglected to secure himself a seat in time. Now it was too late. An usher ran after him, grabbed his arm and pointed to a placard reading "Reserved." There was a vain argument, futile pleading, stony refusal. Dejectedly our hero retraced his steps, with many a backward glance.

"All those seats," he sighed, "and right on the 50-yard line!"