Word: vagabonde
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...there's no getting around it," thought the Vagabond morosely. "It's a horrible prospect." Vag was sitting idly in the Widener Reading Room, where he occasionally came to sleep off a hangover. "I suppose in the long run it'll do me good, but it's still a terrible fate to have to contemplate," he cogitated as he pulled out his pipe, lit up, and disregarding the scandalized stares of the surrounding inmates, took in a long drag of the sweet-tasting smoke...
...cause for this pessimistic train of thought was an article the Vagabond had read in the morning's paper something about compulsory athletics, climbing over barbed wires, digging trenches, running all over the landscape, and indulging in other forms of senseless exhibitionism concocted by the sadistically inventive minds of the College authorities. Vag shuddered, as visions of physical exertion passed across his mind; it was a long, spine-shaking shudder, such as he was accustomed to utter when he saw his tutor walking toward him on Mass. Avenue...
...staggered waveringly into his room, his senses dead, his mind a buzzing, clattering chaos of emptiness. Somewhere ahead in the vague, formless distance a chair loomed up, sunk out of sight, bobbed up again, and finally disappeared. As he was subconsciously wondering where it had gone, the Vagabond felt something hard and unyielding below him; looking down, he made out the dim outlines of the chair, its arms surrounding him familiarly. That's where it is, his mind said to itself automatically, and as the walls bowed and nodded and pirrouetted their assent, Vag tried to pull himself together...
Well; said the Vagabond to himself. Well! How about that? There are new brooms; there is a new year; there is new hope. The Crimson will appear at breakfast tables as before, won't it? New candidates with five and six subjects will appear; they will hang breathlessly on the first words of the blond immigrant from D.C. and the serious spectacles from Newton; they will learn to write and cease to quail before professors, and their voices will change, even in two and a half years. There will always be believers in the power of the press and lovers...
Inchball glided down from the chandelier and settled beside the Vagabond. "I couldn't help overhearing your thoughts, Vag," he squeaked. "You may be right, but I think this is the end. Look at the draft! Look at the decline in advertising! How about paper shortage; how about war-time censorship; how about the drop in enrollment...