Word: vagabonde
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Dusk was coming as the Vagabond descended from his airy left to the hot street where the tar oozed around his thin shoes and covered over the spots he had neglected to polish. Now, as he turned down Plympton Street to the river, a hot draft of air singed his eyelashes, and as he passed the back doors of restaurants the smell of greases caught on his coat, till the next gust blew them off again, and he hurried on. At the river he would find a plot of grass from which he might dangle his feet into the water...
...Vagabond sat down and cried himself to sleep...
...Vagabond rose, prophecy welling within him. "Gentlemen. Our Alma Mata doesn't care." He spoke with solemn dignity, stressing every word. No head stirred under its halo of smoke. No dull eye answered to his rhetoric...
...Vagabond sat apart balancing the thin glass on the palm of his hand watching the streamers of smoke weave their changing patterns about the heads of his friends. He had loosed his collar and the green striped tie was bound about his head giving him an air of Attic dignity enhanced by the sweet serenity of countenance that he so often achieved of an evening. He lifted his glass to his right eye and held it there as if it were a telescope, gazing through its opaque bottom with great earnestness, the slow smile of the contented seer disturbing...
...That's the trouble with graduating, nobody cares." The Vagabond wept a hot tear that burned its way down his check and dropped quietly off the point of his chin. He was suddenly overwhelmed with an infinite loneliness, space rolled away from him in vast undulating planes of smoke and he seemed to be lifted in a cradle of other bearing him up and up until he thought he would burst. Far below him he saw his friends pouring Scotch into opaque glasses and sometimes just pouring Scotch. He saw himself standing alone on a great platform in a black...