THE VAGABOND

Carefully shading the match Vag tried to free himself from the wreek of the three legged ed room chair. Trying to find a safe spot in the day-light was bad enough, but in a blackout--Vag swore softly. Then the match went out. Slightly scorched, Vag disencumbered himself and grasped the nearest solid object to heave himself up. With a groan the table collapsed, spilling comment books about him. That was the last straw. The paper should wait. Vag groped for the comment book, and propping himself securely in the corner, started at the pages by the dim light of his last match.

It was difficult reading Blue prints in the dark, Vag discovered. But Pigs is Pigs, and the mingled odours of Camay, Camels and Camphorice quickly brought him closer to reality. (Why is it that Charley dislikes little babies, he thought, as he turned the page.) Casey is understandable, but this. Yes, Dan, I know Saltonstall won, but who ever heard of Tom Eliot? Yes, Gene. Benny Goodman did play at Carnegie Hall, but we can't have a campaign for Frankie Newton. Vag skipped a few pages, then pulled up short. Poor Joe, his knuckles raw, was still trying to break his way through the barred doors of Boylston. Have to get the Student Council in on this, he muttered. Then, remembering, he stretched his arm out, palm downward, in salute. Suddenly he heard a panting behind him. Relax, Ted, he thought, you don't have to fill it all yourself. But Vag had been fooled by the dark. It was only when the furry frightened creature crept closer whimpering "Oh dear, oh dear, I'll be late. What will the Duchess say?" that he realized. One of Mike's cuddly rabbits; Disney will never live it down. Vag jumped as the match burned out.

Sitting in the dark room, Vag felt gloomy. All he could think of was that ever lengthening list of names: Editors in the Armed Forces. He tried to see ahead. Editors on the Eastern Front, Editors on the Western Front, Editors--. Now who will fill the flowing bowl and, more important, mother the Freshmen, he wondered. Who would discover the WAVES while they were still but ripples in the caves of Comstock? Who could smell out the wiles of the Satevepost soon enough to scoop PM? Who could squeeze out tears so well as Dan, describing the PBH mites waiting wetly for their mothers to finish defense work? Who would replace Hal and Roy in shoveling the track from Plympton Street to the Ken?

Vag choked back a wet sob. All he could see around him were pools of red ink. He felt himself slipping down into them. Mosky, he wailed, dont' put in any more. But all he could see was the face leering at him over the edge of the bowl, and he felt himself slipping down.