"Chicago may be known as the Windy City, but Cambridge is becoming plenty draftee." Vag shivered, turning up his coat collar and thrusting his registration card deep into his pocket. It was a warm day, but Vag could feel a rising wind, a wind which had started somewhere on the plains of Poland, had engulfed half the world in a hurricane of destruction and which was even now spoiling the sun along Mt. Auburn Street. Vag knew there was no use trying to escape; this was not the kind of wind one could clude by retreating' to the books and pipes of one's study. And Vag, the competent and worldly, suddenly felt very incompetent and unworldly--even rather helpless and just a little bit afraid.

He didn't want to leave this life, he wasn't ready to leave yet. There was something about getting back to ivy-covered halls and the usual confusion about study cards, registration and first class meetings which stirred his indifference and made him wish that this was the way things could always be,--made him very sure that this was the way things should be. But there was that infernal card down in his right pocket....

"Oh, I beg your pardon--d--these things." Vag had hardly felt the bump given to him by the flustered young man in new tweeds, but he found himself helping him to pick up the jumbled mass of desk blotters, catalogues and sample newspapers dropped by his excited assailant. "Freshman, I presume?" he queried. "You bet, the Class of '45 is here,"--and the nit was suddenly off and down the street.

"The Class of '45 is here," echoed Vag mentally. Then,--why yes, of course. They're still coming and always will. That was something--plenty. And Vag felt that it was calm again. "Guess I'd better dash over to Mem Hall and register...."