Word: vagabonder
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...late the Vagabond has been a little appalled with the hoopla of anticipation called forth by the new beer bill. As a rule he eschews politics, but in a matter that comes so perilously close to home, he feels that he must speak out. To be brief, he considers the provision for 3.2 per cent peer the most piffling undersized insult ever thrown in the face of a great people, and he cannot understand the careless acclaim with which it has been accepted. He is driven to the mournful conclusion that Americans never had any discrimination in their taste...
...realizes, the flood gates of 3.2 per cent beer will doubtless soon be opened upon the whole nation. But in Cambridge, with a faculty and a student body supposedly versed in liquid lore, a complete return to the era of lager beer and sawdust floors can be averted. The Vagabond has a definite ideal as to how things should be around the Square after repeal. In the matter of public drinking he acknowledges his debt to German and English sources: there ought to be at least one Biergarten, right in the heart of things, which might have to be closed...
...Vagabond is carried away merely by thinking on the possible bliss of mellow afternoons and roistering evenings over the tables of the university pub. In the mild spring twilights, after a long stroll along the river, he would stride obliviously through the bustle of office-workers returning home, choose himself an obscure but well-placed table, order himself a pint of ale, and observe the passers-by with that careless insolence which is proper only to Vagabonds and dowagers. Or perhaps, driving in from a gay, day-long junketing in the newly green countryside, he and she would stop...
...great a hold had the insidious fluency of eighteenth-century prose, and its right-minded gloom upon the Vagabond that he too, for a while, could not be comforted by the thought of deliverance, or even by the subtle transformation in the air, as of vast changes brewing...
...morning in the tower. The Vagabond is awake. Outside the birds are singing in nasty, shrill voices; horrid, sticky buds disfigure the trees; below, a surpassingly unattractive girl is passing. It is cold, and revoltingly early. The Vagabond ponders a moment, with a puzzled look; suddenly it comes to him: his inner standard has returned...