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Three Winthrop House men last week culminated a mild celebration with the sudden resolution to drive down to New York at about one o'clock in the morning. Two of them jumped into the front seat, one into the rumble, and off they went to Boston. The owner, despite his jubilation, had portentous suspicions of a certain soft front tire and decided to purchase a new one before setting out on the lengthy journey. After much scanning and scouring of the streets of Boston, as Fate would have it, nowhere could they discover a tire shop that wasn't closed for the night. Before long the occupant of the rumble seat dozed off into a profound and peaceful slumber, such a one as only the froths of many beers can induce. A little later his two companions, bored to no end with this fruitless search around the Hub's winding thoroughfares, turned up a dark, forsaken alley and came to a stop. What to do next? A sudden revelation--they left a note in the sleeping one's lap, hopped out of the car, and disappeared into the night.
Then came the dawn. Our solitary man rubbed his eyes and stretched lazily. Where the devil was he? The note caught his eye, and he read: "Meet you at the New Yorker, ten o'clock." Gentic reader, Lord forbid the reoccurrence of such a hopeless, stupid physiognomy across the face of any man! Troubles never come singly. He had three classes that very morning; he was on pro; he had exactly one dollar in his pocket, and here he was way down South in New York City. Things looked awfully ominous. He set out for the New Yorker.
An hour and a half later a silent, dejected figure clumped up the Harvard Square subway station, walked down to Winthrop House, and stole into his room. He wouldn't speak to his two companions for a week.
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