An undergraduate friend of ours came around the other day looking awfully sheepish. He admits that he was under the old influence, but that doesn't completely take the ignominy from spending three hours in a Beacon Hill manhole. It might even have been four, for all he knows.
Seems he was walking along Pinckney Street after mixing them up pretty indiscriminately, and then also the manhole cover was off. Shakily, he vows that there was no red light, no rail, no warning; it's certain that he, at least, saw none. He just walked in, and down.
When he woke up, he thinks he screamed. A kind old lady with a dog heard him, and before his head cleared there was a big red truck, and ladders, and a rope. He reports that what hurt most was his rescuers' benevolent sneers; he swears he's learned his lesson and will never go near Beacon Hill again.
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