The Vagabond

Everything looked the same. The lush greenness of the Yard. The Navy Officers in the Square. The congregation to Hayes-Bick. Harvard was old Harvard, when Hitler was a pup, and this war wouldn't make any more difference than the other six or seven in her history had. The Vagabond wasn't quite sure how many it was, but exact figures are unimportant. The University was yielding gradually and gracefully; this Y-12 business wouldn't affect Fair Harvard any more than it would affect indifferent Vagabond.

And so on down Dunster Street to Eliot. Still no change. Even the Freshmen looked the same. You could always spot them because they walked with their heads up. After a while you know what everything, looks like and you don't stare at anything above the level of the other fellow's tie.

This V-12 business had made a difference right there, he noted as he reached the House. The fellows standing around the janitor's office had no stripes on theirs--just plain black neckerchiefs. The only variations in the blue and black color scheme were on the sleeve or in the splash of color above the breast pocket.

Then they started talking, about the wonders of Cambridge, and the inevitable contrast with life at sea . . . "Two of us in a room that would hold thirty on a ship" . . . "The guys told me I'd have to eat goldfish" . . . "It's going to be tough taking math after seven years" . . . "I'm going to work like hell at the beginning to get on to this stuff" . . . "After just looking at this place I want to stick" . . . "Wonder if they'll give us credit towards a degree" . . .

Vag more or less drifted into the conversation, making like the genial host. "Yeah, it's a pretty nice place. Want me to show you around the Yard?"