"O the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la" crooned the Vagabond as he trudged through the slush toward Plympton Street. He doubled his fists a little closer into the pockets of his Chesterfield and tried to think of the "Transmission of Heat." Professor Black transmits heat, he thought; but this night is air-cooled. One really should give Professor Black a break, though perhaps it would be better to wait for "Heaviside Calculus." Yes, "Heaviside Calculus" would be a much more fanciful subject than "Transmission of Heat," lectures being what they are, and there would be no temptation to introduce Bundling, and then "Let's Turn Out the Lights and Go to Sleep." But once in his retreat, the Vagabond reached again for the flagon, and discovered that, best of all, he could project himself into the thoughts of his tormentor, the Editor. Here is revenge, real revenge:

The Editor sank back into the cushions of the taxi and wished the meter wouldn't tick so often. In Detroit you can make a bargain with the chauffeur, but New Englanders have no sense of humor when it comes to money. Beacon Street is so far away. But damn the expense, there is always a wastebasket for regular bills. And tonight, tonight would be worth a King's Ransom.

He helped her into the car and was glad that the chauffeur touched his cap and said "Yessir!" instead of the "Sure, Bub," which had marked the departure from Harvard Square. The motor roared, a gentle laugh rang out, and he forgot the ticking, ticking, ticking meter . . .

The Editor relinquished her reluctantly, glad that she was so popular, but just a bit jealous. After all, stags don't pay a full price, and why should they cut in on someone else's expenditures. He glanced back, and realized that she did dance divinely, and looked a bit more beautiful tonight . . . it couldn't be just clothes. There was Freddie. Freddie had made the punch, and had been under the necessity of tasting it. Perhaps it would be better to avoid Freddie.

The lights dimmed suddenly. Poor Cricket, down in that dirty hole with the presses. The cricket is just the one to be running things on a dance night. Someone should warn him, though, about drinking and cigarettes, and he might try studying, too. Oh well, heigh ho.

And so now, gentle readers, across the shimmering floor, through the French doors, you may see the Vagabond by the punch bowl, and now again, O greater Audience, look up from your coffee and rolls, and there he is, ordering his own coffee and rolls. Look well, ye, for now he is more easily seen than he will be soon again.