He is a soft little man who wears a rather nice polo coat and always tops it off with a tan cap, vintage of the 1920's. He stands on corners around the Square a good bit even now and says hello to most everyone. Most everyone says hello to him, too. He generally doesn't know their names, but they almost always know his. The Vagabond is one of his pals, although he doesn't know that Vag is Vag. Many a student, not excluding Vag, is indebted to this soft little man, for when they are desperate for a fin, he will take practically anything as security. He's been here a long time, and he knows a lot about Harvard and its doings. His large establishment used to be a veritable storehouse for all sorts of stuff. Its interior was laden with clothes and china and silverware and odd knick-knacks. Some of the articles weren't much good, but then they weren't priced very highly either. The place had a simple and direct dignity--not bustling and impersonal like the Coop, but intimate and quiet, with just a tinge of secrecy--not big like Widener, but more like a House library on say, a Tuesday afternoon. The varied articles of clothing on the hangers had not the resplendency of new garments, but they did have the proper aristocratic drape and much good, solid wear in them. Sometimes this friend of Vag's would come to his penthouse room and timidly knock on the door and ask in a small voice if Vag had anything for him. Vag seldom did. And he has nothing for him now except a growing respect for this little man who manages to be so dignified about an undignified business. His store is bare now, and all the stuff has been moved elsewhere--to new a quarters eastward, but still "on the Avenue." Workmen are now changing and rebuilding the front of the old place into something gaudy and shiny. And the warm solemnity of Max Keezer is gone from the Square...