During the reading period the Vagabond is able to dispatch all his mundane business in the course of the day, unhampered as he is by the press of lectures. In the evenings he is left free to wander carelessly in those sequestered spots which fancy dictates. Upon occasion the lights of Boston "flaring like a dreary dawn" beckon him over the river to while away the evening hours. In the course of his peregrinations intellectual needs often give way to the more physical delights of food and nourishment. The old fellow has happened upon many an interesting and delectable dish in various victual houses far from the madding crowd.

It has occurred to him that he might set down for his host of followers some of the more attractive taverns that they too might experience the joys of the epicure before the Pops or a movie. The Vagabond has ever cared deeply for the Olympia. Every now and again American food becomes too prosaic, too jading for the appetite. Then a baked chop, rice cooked with the aid of some occult Greek necromancy, and Baclava make a meal worth the cating. Down near the market there is the restaurant which was an institutions of our fathers', Durgin's. A good trustworthy place. The Vagabond finds it, that satisfies the most lusty paunch. And after the evening's sportiveness he is wont to wander in to Jakie Wirth's to call out for a "seidel of light" with which to wash down rye bread and cheese. Those many who scan these lines may have already been to and disliked these places: they may go and dislike them, but there are many of both ilk who will concur with the opinions of the Vagabond. And whatever the reactions of the Vagabond he himself has even now paid off a debt long over due the creditors, a debt of placid enjoyment which stretches far into the past and lights the misty reaches of the future.