The air raid klaxon ground in Vag's ear.

"Damn! Who set that alarm clock? What goes on here?" Vag exploded, tortuously disentangling himself from his bed-covers and reeling over to the infernal machine. Feeling for the magic button, he pushed it way down somewhere into the springy depths of the clock, and blindly felt his way back to the empty warm nest between the sheets. His heavy head sank into the soft pillow, and lying there, he opened his eyes and stared mistily at the ceiling. "Still going in circles," he muttered half-aloud. "That party last night . . . where on earth is Lechmere? But it was swell . . . gee, she was swell . . . still reeling from that party last night. Oh . . ." And his voice trailed off.

"Come to think of it though," a thought brightened his mind, "it's a good thing I got stewed last night. Now I don't have to go to class today." His logic was obvious. "No class today . . ." He repeated, "No class today . . ." in a louder voice to be sure that his awakened senses had heard the good news. It reminded him in his nocturnal lethargy of those lovely bygone days when cutting classes did not even involve a thought.

Vag closed his eyes, but reopened them in a second, jumping out of bed in the same instant. "Oh, hell. But I can't cut classes any more, can I?"

"No, Vagabond, you can't," an inward voice answered in a serious tone. "Dean Hanford . . . you remember. Probation, Vagabond. Dean Hanford. Probation. President Conant wouldn't like it, Vag. And then there's probation . . . Dean Hanford. Probation."

Vag walked unsteadily to the window. Raising it a bit, he sniffed the moist, cold air outside. Coughing violently, he slammed it shut and wound his weary way back to bed, being careful not to catch his white woolen bedsocks on the steel bedspring as he buried himself again under the warm covers.