From the aeolian depths of the Park Street subway station, the Vagabond emerged into walls of rain and one of those incomparable Tremont Street typhoons. During a moment of vexation, he wondered if Orson Welles and Burgess Meredith were really worth all this. But Vag fought to subdue his sudden spurt of misanthropy and pushed on. After all, he told himself, he was about to have an opportunity to absorb the liquid words and sly wit of two great Thespians, and absolutely gratis, to boot. True, it wasn't a performance of "The Five Kings," but it was an interview, and Vag guessed that he was going to enjoy himself immensely asking them all sorts of questions. Of course it wasn't a private interview, as the Vagabond's English professor had said that other people were going to be there, too, but that didn't disturb Vag. He was going to be very intelligent and professional and show these people that at least one Harvard undergraduate could appreciate productions on a level higher than the Old Howler.

Suddenly, with a grateful sigh, the Vagabond found himself in the blessed aridity of the lobby. He moved his toes and heard in unpleasantly decisive "squoosh," and he knew that he would have to go somewhere immediately and dry his shoes; he had heard rumors of Stillman's newly-adopted exclusiveness. But suddenly Vag completely for-got about wet shoes and infirmaries for there directly in front of him was a gigantic board, studded with pictures of his secret love is Hepburn, Vag mooned and sighed and fell into a cataleptic trance.

Vag has no way of knowing how he stood there but suddenly he was aroused from his hypnosis by a clangorous blast of shrill, female voices. He glanced in the direction of the tumult and instinctively braced himself at what he saw. There, headed by a stern, prim, capable-looking teacher (she couldn't have been anything else but a teacher), was a horde of adolescent females sweeping down on him.

No sooner had the Vagabond been shoved behind a pillar than the estimable Mr. Welles and Mr. Meredith appeared. Vag gave up all hopes of trying to reach the stage to ask a few of his erudite questions, as he would have been in shreds by the time he got there. Consequently, he became resigned and settled down to hear the proceedings,

"Mr. Welles, I should like to ask you why ..."

"Hey, Ruth, why ain't Annabelle here?"

"I dunno. I suppose old Picklepuss made her stay after again."

"Mr. Meredith, in regard to your screen production of 'Winterset,' what do you ..."

"Hey, Ruth, have you seen that awful new wimple she got? In the first place it don't fit her, and ..."

This enlightening conversation was being conducted between the young the young lady on Vag's left and her robust little confidante on Vag's right. Vag was wet, he couldn't see, and now he couldn't even hear. He knew that if he didn't leave immediately, he would lose all control and commit the heinous offense of bashing together two female heads. Muttering insincere apologies, the Vagabond clambered over legs and seats and splashed his way to the nearest subway entrance.