The Vagabond is frankly disturbed. This statement takes on the colors of an admission from one who likes to consider himself free from those troubles which eat out the hearts of mortal men. But the Vagabond is disturbed.

He has seen it stated in the daily press on reputable authority that the slang of today is puny, degenerate, and emasculated. Now this directly concerns his province, for it is in his slang that ordinary man looses the chains which bind him and stands forth a naked personality. And the Vagabond deals with the hearts of men from which the curtain of convention has been drawn aside. Slang and swearing, as they appear to a purist, should be crystallized emotional expressions. Regarded as such, the Vagabond can only join with his distinguished colleague and lament the passing of the giant oaths.

The cock-fighting, sword-thrusting, chin-chucking days are gone never to return. A hard-breathed "gadsblood" man will never heighten the tension of mortal conflict more. Beroic gestures are out of fashion and with them have gone the verbal trappings which were one of the chief compensations for the inadequate plumbing fixtures of the middle ages. The radio and the movie have finished the levelling process of democracy. The human sea of derbied heads stretches out far into the middle west with no crown or crested helm to arrest the eye. Can all romance have gone forever? In his soul the Vagabond can not believe this. Somewhere under a $19.50, double-breasted, peaked-lapelled coat he knows that there beats a heart-of-gold ripe for adventure.