"No, there's no getting around it," thought the Vagabond morosely. "It's a horrible prospect." Vag was sitting idly in the Widener Reading Room, where he occasionally came to sleep off a hangover. "I suppose in the long run it'll do me good, but it's still a terrible fate to have to contemplate," he cogitated as he pulled out his pipe, lit up, and disregarding the scandalized stares of the surrounding inmates, took in a long drag of the sweet-tasting smoke.

The cause for this pessimistic train of thought was an article the Vagabond had read in the morning's paper something about compulsory athletics, climbing over barbed wires, digging trenches, running all over the landscape, and indulging in other forms of senseless exhibitionism concocted by the sadistically inventive minds of the College authorities. Vag shuddered, as visions of physical exertion passed across his mind; it was a long, spine-shaking shudder, such as he was accustomed to utter when he saw his tutor walking toward him on Mass. Avenue.

He gazed piteously at his hands, so white, so unblemished; hands which had held nothing heavier than a pen since they had passed out of the rattle stage. He felt his biceps, and it suddenly occurred to him that those arm muscles had never exerted themselves more than to reach across the table for a dry Martini. As he looked at his feet, perched lackadaisically on the desk in front of him, the thought crossed his mind that the major part of their existence had been spent in just such a position. A feeling of disgust crept over him.

Suddenly the Vagabond jumped up. "This is what they mean by softness," he shouted at the top of his lungs; and the inmates looked up in alarm, each one putting his finger on the page of his book so as not to lose his place. "This," shrieked Vag, almost forgetting his hangover as he dashed his pipe to the floor. "Away, you manifestation of an era of physical and intellectual decadence," he shouted as he stamped on the offending briar. "That's what I am. I'm soft, flabby, weak. Remember Pearl Harbor. . . ."

And as the inmates gazed at one another in mute astonishment, the Vagabond rushed from the room. "Bring on that barbed wire, where are those shovels? Muscles! Biceps! Feet! Ears! Good-bye Momma, I'm off to . . ." and his voice died away in the distance.