For as long as he could remember, there had always been two groups of people Vag never trusted--politicians and saviors of youth. He was afraid of politicians entirely by instinct, perhaps because his mother had attended a nominating convention just three months before his birth. And he was afraid of saviors of youth, because he knew by experience that as soon as anyone started talking about saving youth, it always meant something unpleasant like castor oil. And anyway, Vag was sure that the main thing youth had to be saved from was people who'd grown old so soon that they'd never had time to find out what it was like to be young.

But as fearful as these two groups were separately, they were one hundred times worse when they joined forces for a common end. Vag remembered a certain Governor whose favorite occupation was bussing helpless babies. That was innocent enough sport, and after a certain age babies could no longer be bussed in public; but there were certain other ways politicians had of providing for youth which were much more annoying. Just the other day, in a newsreel, Vag had heard a certain be-moustached Galahad from New York throw his hat into the presidential ring with the ominous rally call: "I want to restore faith to the Youth (with a capital "Y") of this country." Immediately Vag dispatched a letter:

"Dear Galahad:

You may be a presidential candidate, but you are just a Childe Harolde to me. Just how old does one get in thirty-eight years, anyway? At the risk of being an un-American, defeatist influence, I don't want faith restored to me. You just stay over in the Elysian fields where you belong, and let me wallow my poor benighted way through Hell. Yours very cordially, Pro Bono Publico."