Dropping "The Great Gatsby" on the rug, Vag walked over to the mantlepiece, poured out an inch of Southern Comfort, and proposed a toast. "Here's to you, F. Scott Fitzvag," he murmured, downing the 100 proof liquid. Something about bananas and refrigerators was coming out of the radio, and seated again the chair, his ears turning a dull crimson, Vag began to see the happy scenes. . .

There were raccoon coats with built-in hip flasks, plaid-seated convertibles, plenty of Canadian Club; Vag was mentally immersed in a maelstrom of all night parties and lost weekends. He saw the crowds and colors of November Saturday afternoons and smelled the mixed aroma of burning leaves, Chanel, and rye hovering over Soldiers Field. Pretty girls there would be by the score, by the six dozen--the "golden girls." The bright lights and gay scenes revolved in perfect time to the Six Little Tailors, and for once, Vag smiled at the jingle.

His bacchanalian thought pattern was disturbed by the bells, which maddeningly stopped after playing three-quarters of their tune. Vag vaguely remembered something about a ten o'clock class, and hoisting himself up, he moved his tie one quarter of an inch to the right, straightened the little gold bird on his lapel, and started off with a long-ago-and-faraway look on his face. Floating up Holyoke Street and across Mass. Avenue, F. Scott Fitzvag entered a strangely quiet Yard. Harvard Hall, his destination, was deserted. It is now Monday morning at ten o'clock, said Vag, and I'm quite sure that I have been coming here every Monday morning at ten o'clock since the term began. A dark cloud blotted out the sun, and a cold sweat broke out on Vag's face. The very worst occurred to him immediately. Had the great revival begun; at this very moment was everyone else sleeping off the after effects of the new era's launching! Had he missed the first inning of the renascence! The Vagabond shuddered, turned his collar up, and with bowed head, slowly shuffled off.

The sun came out from behind the cloud. Vag glanced at the figures scurrying up and down the Widener front porch. Two weeks to exams, he mused, and. . . "Reading Period," he screamed to the squirrels and pigeons. It wasn't too late. He started off rapidly toward Widener, kept on past it, dodged across Mass. Avenue, bounded down Holyoke Street and raced up the stairs to his room. "The Great Gatsby" was on the rug where he had left it, and there was an inch of amber left in the bottle on the mantlepiece. F. Scott Fitzvag held the bottle up to the light, proposed a toast, and slowly let the liquid run into the glass with the Harvard Seal on the side.