The Vagabond

As he passed by the checker's desk, Vag automatically picked up one of the little white slips and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his jacket, already bristling with silverwear put there some days ago at supper and since forgotten. He went down the line absent-mindedly, only the thud of mashed potatoes being dumped upon his tray reminding him of his surroundings. At the end of the line Vag picked up a coffiee and then stopped. He peered out over the tables packed with babling undergraduates, all of them waving their arms back and forth energetically. Over the monstrous babble of the dining hall separate phrases hit his car--"Marshall's report in '46 proved. . . Any senator, and I don't care what party, who takes. . . Just a babe in the wood, I tell you, a babe in the woods. . . And do you know what they would do with our Power Commission. . . Twenty years, and I don't care which party, is too long. . ."

Vag wineed, spilling some of his coffee onto the hot dogs. An alert, well informed electorate was one thing, but something was the matter with a college where you could hardly discuss last Saturday's football game without being considered a traitor to the American Way of Life. All you could hear in the dining hall was Eisenhower-Stevenson, Nixon-Sparkman, Bundy-Schlesinger until you were sick of it. Besides, half the blabber, months weren't old enough to vote anyway.

Far off in the corner of the dining room Vag spotted a Fine Arts tutor sitting alone, a pleasant young man who seemed perpetually lost in fifteenth century Florence. Vag caught the tutor's eyes, smiled at him, and edged his way over to the distant table. He said hello and sat down opposite the tutor. There was no response From across the table and Vag looked up. The Fine Arts tutor was staring at the ceiling with his fifteenth-century look in his eyes. The tutor lowered his eyes toward Vag and said, "Isn't he wonderful?" "Who?" said Vag, but he had a nasty feeling that he knew what was coming. "Stevenson, of course," said the tutor. "Those speeches--chiseled, absolutely chiseled," he murmured reverently. "Yes of course," said Vag, attacking the hot dog.

"There you are!" The voice boomed out over Vag's shoulder and he peered around just in time to see a beefy individual bearing down on the table. The beefy individual, whose tray contained four glasses, of milk, sat down next to the Fine Arts tutor, nodding to Vag as he readied his silverware.

"Did you see thing about Arizona," the newcomer said, waving about a copy of the New York Times. "Your fellow Stevenson just about lost that place for himself." The tutor's eyes blazed and he said something about the Progressive Party. The beefy individual mentioned Caudle and McCrath; the tutor countered with the accepted "both parties do it--it's the fault of business too--and besides just look at Nixon" replay. Vag Slipped away unnoticed.

As he passed out of the dining hall Vag noticed a cardboard box set up near the door. He remembered about the slip he had picked up on the way in, and fished it out of his breast pocket. "Presidential Preference Poll" it said, "please write in the candidate and party you are supporting for the presidency." Vag waited a moment, chewed up the end of a pencil, and then scribbled in, "Darlington Hoopes, Socialist."