The Vagabond is a true vagabond, and therefore he crept from his retreat in Memorial Tower last night, and avoiding the few straggling Freshmen vainly trying to register an hour too late, sped his way to the late lamented Union. He gorged himself well on the fare intended only for the newcomers, carefully avoiding the recognizing eye of his friend, the Adviser in religion. Then he settled himself comfortably in a soft spot to enjoy the fumes of Benson and Hedges, lulled into absent dreams by the pleasant voices of the speakers.

Suddenly there was a tension, and the Great Man entered, with an accustomed witticism, and the Great Man seated himself on the steps of the rostrum to await the end of the Statesman's oration. The Vagabond's chief interest is in men, not things, and he recognized in the upturned coat-collar and twinkling eye of the Great Man signs of the culprit. Then the explanation burst upon the observer, and he longed to tell of the culprit's crime.

A blue Buick flew along the road toward Plymouth, and at its wheel sat a stately, dignified man, gray but hale, taking obvious delight in the throbbing power he controlled. The needle on the swank dial crept from left to right, from sixty to seventy, perhaps toward that exhilarating eighty. It was then fate intervened, and when the big Buick drew to a stop by the kerb the policeman's scathing tongue had respect for neither the distinguished lawyer or famed administrator that were one in the stately, dignified man.

So tomorrow he will be a Freshman again, and go to the New Lecture Hall at nine o'clock, to hear President Lowell speak.