The Vagabond has been sitting for an hour with nary a thought in his poor addled brain. The moon laughs in at him through the window and the lights on the river twinkle "Out for a gambol and revel with the doxies. It's spring!"

So the Vagabond puts on his hat and coat and slams gaily out of his room. He lights a pipe and strolls out along the parkway and up towards the Square. Sounds of revelry arrest him as he passes a pub on Mt. Auburn Street. He pokes his head in the door. Waves of noise beat him back, but a warm blue sign over the bar lures him in.

Soon he is settled in a corner and peering out into the boery cacophony that surrounds him. Smoke drifts and hangs. Hectored barmaids bustle wearily to help Harvard's demi-monde with its forgetting. High school heroes and prep school might-have-beens assure each other of what they might be doing now. Beacon Hill-climbers rub their barked shins unseen and unmolested. Literary figures of other days talk stridently of what they could be writing. Yonder the Great Lover is educating Radcliffe, while a nearby group of almost-clubmen watch him with scornful interest. Frustration wanders quietly from booth to booth, barely perceptible through the fumes of smoke and noise and liquor.

"Bar's closing," says a tired voice, "Any more drinks?"

The lights turn down and a waiter begins to mop the floor. The Vagabond gets up, puts on his hat and coat, and goes out. A cold rain is falling on Mt. Auburn Street.

This morning the Vagabond will sleep late.