The pleasant surprise of coming into the air-conditioned lounge had worn off, and the Vag stared idly at the drink in his hand, trying hard to keep his head above the current of nostalgia that was tugging at him. This sort of thing might be all right for other people, but it was going to be different with Vag. He had seen too many of his friends go; too much breaking down at the finish, too many last walks around the Yard, too much dreaming over old English A themes and football program. He had gone to too many farewell parties, smashed too many beer bottles in fireplaces, seen too many people off at South Station. The inevitable pattern of "Gee, I hate to leave the old place;" a pause, and then, "well, so long kid, see you," the over hearty hand-shake and the quick turning away, had begun to seem almost indecent.

Now that it was his turn, there wasn't going to be any corn; into the waste basket with the themes and the programs. No corn; well maybe a little, wistful melancholy, all very civilized, all very Chekhovian, "This is the way the world ends. . ." He'd have another drink or two, a few reminiscences, but under control, and then out into the hot sunlight, pack his books and pull out.

But it wasn't working. The drink had started him off. He began to count all the scotches he'd had at Harvard. He remembered Yale weekend freshman year, and the junior, mature and self-assured in his how tie and Argyle socks, who'd taken pity on him and got him drunk for the first time in his life. And that had brought back the Stadium, and the team and the "Fight" cheer. He saw the Charles late in the afternoon, and the last crew shooting under Anderson bridge, heading for Newell. The warm, sentimental flood was getting stronger, pulling him along. He took a pull at his drink, lit a cigarette and let himself go.