Read Campus Tramp for Free Online

Record caught her eye and she opened it once again to Don Gibbs’ editorial. It was a standard piece on the surface, about sixty double-column lines welcoming the freshman class to Clifton College. But a second reading revealed another message between the lines. The editorial was a subtle slam at higher education in general and Clifton College in particular.
    It was, all in all, an especially mean editorial—but there was nothing you could put your finger on, nothing that would permit anyone to censure the person who had written it. It revealed that the author was a very interesting person, a very clever person.
    But she had already guessed that. No, it hadn’t been a guess. The minute she saw Don Gibbs at the tavern she knew that he would be worth knowing. Since then she had seen him a half-dozen times or so on campus but had still never met him.
    She stood up suddenly and began to get ready for bed, undressing and washing her face and brushing her teeth. She brushed her long blonde hair until it glistened. Then she turned out the light and slipped under the covers of the lower bunk.
    She decided, sleepily, that she didn’t want to think any more about Don Gibbs. She already had a man, and she saw that her relationship with Joe could develop into real love. He was so gentle with her, so considerate of her.
    She guessed that Don Gibbs would be neither gentle nor considerate. He might not ever so much as notice her to begin with, and if he did he would probably be cruel and sarcastic and demanding. She pictured him in her mind—the crew cut, the beard, the slight wrinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. Then the picture faded and was replaced by one of Joe.
    Joe was obviously the better man for her.
    But she couldn’t stop thinking of Don Gibbs.
    She bumped into Don Gibbs Thursday afternoon.
    That, quite literally, was what happened. She was hurrying from her sociology class to the library with a pile of unreadable books under her arm and her head down. The position of her head enabled her to see quite clearly the hem of her black skirt, the white socks, the saddle shoes, and the ground she walked on.
    Unfortunately, it did not enable her to see where she was going.
    Halfway down the path to the library she collided with Donald Gibbs. At first, of course, she didn’t know who it was that she collided with. She didn’t know, for that matter, that she had collided with anybody at all. For all she knew she had walked into a tree. The shock of the whole thing sent her sprawling, with unreadable books flying off in all directions. When she looked up timidly and saw his face gazing down at her, she turned a deep shade of red and began sputtering unintelligibly.
    “My fault,” he said. “I should have watched where you were going.”
    She started to say something but before any words came out he was taking her by one arm and lifting her to her feet. Then he stooped over to pick up her books and handed them to her in a neat stack.
    “Oh, yes,” she said, stupidly. “My books.”
    “Probably. They’re not mine, and we were the only two cars in the crash.”
    “I’m sorry. I should have—”
    “Forget it.”
    “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
    “Hardly. You all right?”
    She nodded uncertainly and hesitated, wanting to turn and hurry off to the library but not knowing quite how to go about it. Before she could do much of anything he smiled at her briefly and asked: “Who are you?”
    “Linda.”
    “That’s a start. Can you give me any more clues?”
    She looked at him, puzzled.
    “It may surprise you,” he explained, “but there are quite a few Linda’s. I thought perhaps you might have some means of identification which would be a little more specific.”
    “Oh.”
    “Like a last name, for example.”
    “Shepard,” she said, desperately. “Linda Shepard. From Cleveland.”
    “That’s a little better. What else?”
    “Like what?”
    “What year are you?”
    “Freshman.”
    He