Dusk was coming as the Vagabond descended from his airy left to the hot street where the tar oozed around his thin shoes and covered over the spots he had neglected to polish. Now, as he turned down Plympton Street to the river, a hot draft of air singed his eyelashes, and as he passed the back doors of restaurants the smell of greases caught on his coat, till the next gust blew them off again, and he hurried on. At the river he would find a plot of grass from which he might dangle his feet into the water with no one to blame him for it. Often he had sat there in the Spring and watched the sun play Lotto with the chubby red tower across the river, and later he had watched the channel lights on the bridges wink at themselves. Tonight, though, he had not been alone; a cur had laughed at his feet in the water, and whipped a tail in his eye, and besides, the green tower interfered with the sun's business. It was summer, and the Vagabond sighed.
Read more in News
EIGHT VETERANS FORM SOCCER TEAM NUCLEUS
