Wending his way up to 14 Plympton Street, Vag sobbed. How awfully sad it was! No more to see the genial conservative M.E., the boy who made Winnetka ill. The sporty lad from Milwaukee, the peerless peer from Cleveland, the genial South'n gennleman from Kentuck'. . . . The turnover of the Crime always made the Vagabond sad, but this was an especially unhappy night. He looked at his watch--4:12, time for a quick session with the pinball boards at Harry's Club. Man against machine, amateur against the elements, sucker against Gottlicb. Vag racked-up four frees on the first try but felt no thrill; he groped his way out and left the board to the vultures who cluster for such a moment.

The soft light on the dirty sidewalk, the modest little brass sign--"The Crimson." Vag turned in at the door, with a mental prayer that none of the editors would forget to be there. They hadn't: Cleveland, Brookline, Wisconsin, Illinois, Kentucky, Cincinnati and New York--what a joyous progeny of Uncle Sam! And there, hanging from the chandelier grinning inanely was Inchball, good old Feather stone cough, who never failed to wing his way from Shangri-La for this sad, glad occasion. Vag felt a sudden exuberance, even before the punch was made; he was amoosed though confoosed.

Four-thirty on the dot, and they poured into the Sacred Room--many for the last time, Vag thought, with his lip 'trembling. Four eventful years he had known them, or almost, from their first naive appearance in the Square which Recognizes Neither Birth Nor Breed. And now they doffed their childish honors and went forth into a stern intense world. The Vagabond perched himself on the back of the President's chair and listened to the reports. Words, words, words, words, so cheerful, so gallantly smutty, and so terribly inadequate. "To be at home in all lands and ages . . . to lose yourself in generous enthusiasms and cooperate with others for common ends . . . the best four years of your life." That was what they would say if they said what was inside, Vag thought. What is Semitic 12, Sociology 19, English A2, and History 14a in comparison with the daily forming and stating of idealism's, the angry bull-sessions, the satisfaction of homeward treks as the sun comes up, the dashing of hopes, and the sudden thrill of Making The Board, the ferment intellectual and otherwise, the roar of the presses, the reports of the thoughts and actions of Harvard and of the world? "The House Committee reports . . . more organization . . . as President . . . lack of advertising . . . hope for the future . . . annual assessment . . . scooped the Boston papers . . . Lampoon incident . . ." Vag nodded approvingly: the old wise words, the admonition to the new brooms--sweep clean.

Well; said the Vagabond to himself. Well! How about that? There are new brooms; there is a new year; there is new hope. The Crimson will appear at breakfast tables as before, won't it? New candidates with five and six subjects will appear; they will hang breathlessly on the first words of the blond immigrant from D.C. and the serious spectacles from Newton; they will learn to write and cease to quail before professors, and their voices will change, even in two and a half years. There will always be believers in the power of the press and lovers of the potency of wine--right through the duration!

Inchball glided down from the chandelier and settled beside the Vagabond. "I couldn't help overhearing your thoughts, Vag," he squeaked. "You may be right, but I think this is the end. Look at the draft! Look at the decline in advertising! How about paper shortage; how about war-time censorship; how about the drop in enrollment?"

Just for a minute, Vag doubted; then he curled his lip and smiled scornfully at Inchball. ""Tis truth, with deference to the college," he quoted, "newspapers are the fount of knowledge. America can't win. America can't survive, without free and adequate reporting. The Crimson will appear tomorrow morning, and the next and the next and the next. We cannot guarantee to print notices received after 7 o'clock. Honeychile--let us join the others at the flowing bowl!"