The Vagabond stirred uneasily in his cell in Mem Hall tower. What was this noise that broke in on his reverie? What bedlam dared intrude on his solitude? Outside, on Kirkland Street, on Broadway, on Mass Avenue the clatter of the American Railway Express, the long-distance moving vans and the less shiny, but far more serviceable vans of local concerns broke the silence of a dismal September day.

It was September, thought the Vagabond. And only a few short months ago he had mutely cursed those same vans that now deposited their trunks and bags throughout the widening reaches of the University. It was a cruel world. There always must be trucks. But the chilly drizzle continued and the Vagabond was again at peace with the world. For just as there must be trucks there must be a drizzle. A cold, cheerless persistent drizzle that left blankets damp in the evening and clothes clammy in the morning.

But the mist drove away the fear that the Vagabond had felt at the sound of trucks. It was Cambridge and not Bediam after all even if it was the drizzle that proved the point. The noise of trunks bumping on the steps of Thayer and Matthews, of Gallatin and Walter Hastings would have jarred on the Vagabond's nerves on a bright sunny day when sounds seemed to reverberate from their origin. But the rain was a dull absorbent muffler. It was like--thought the Vagabond--it was like a ball of wool falling on a Persian rug.

It had always been like this. There had always been a drifting rain that dampened the spirits of new freshmen and made the buildings look dilapidated. But upperclassmen recognized only Cambridge and made easy conversation, "What weather!"