The Vagabond in his Attic after a day filled with bustle but productive of no visible results. How much of his college life has been precisely like today! Wake at three minutes to nine--too late for his first class--toss till quarter to ten when up and a hasty brushing of his teeth and a poor shave with four bad nicks to staunch with stypic pencil. To breakfast at Waldorf, and two hours to kill before the twelve o'clock. A dash into Widener and check the bibliographies on Fenimore Cooper. A dash to H.A.A.--tickets for Dartmouth game. Back to his Attic and his best suit to Felix's--dinner with the Housemaster tonight. The Class very dull, the Vagabond scribbling little notes on the cover of his notebook.

"Find out abt rent-rebellion in N. Y. state."

"See Bill--can't go Sunday."

"Write Henry--Mother."

Class over and lunch with friend in Lowell House, cigarette before and after dessert and during coffee. Too many cigarettes, have to get back to pack-a-day. Tutor at two, thesis subject not yet selected, think it will be Fenimore Cooper, haven't got it exactly. Assignment for next week Miracle Plays. Should have done them sophomore year. The Vagabond has a field of concentration but he consistently ignores it.

Twenty laps in the pool. He was doing fifty this summer but it was a smaller pool. Eyes hurt in the sun, too much chlorine in the water. No cocktail before dinner, swore off two weeks ago and only had one since. Dinner in the Master' lodgings, the Master tall gray quiet man, professor in an antique tongue. Master's wife good company. Some talk about new parietal rules, plans for House dances. Back to the Attic a little after nine and an hour reading Kleist's "Prinz Friederich von Homburg" with text in one hand and Langenscheidts "Deutsch-Englisch" in the other. Listen to the radio and desultory talk with room-mates till bed.

The routine different every day but every day the same. Might be shoes to tap instead of suit to press, might be tickets for French movies instead of Dartmouth game. Might even get up in time for nine o'clock and then miss twelve to eat an early lunch. The stretch from eight to one is sometimes too much for the Vagabond. Might be cocktails before dinner and might not. It's all the same and before long it's all over. Somehow it never seems like wasted time.