Word: vagabonders
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Last weekend the Vagabond set himself for an enormous coverage of work. Divisionals were rolling in, and this was no time to fool around. But when Saturday afternoon had somewhat spent itself in the stacks of Harry's Club, he couldn't resist going down to the old ship-yard just to take a look at his small cruising cutter. There it was tucked away in the corner of the big shed. It's bottom was rough and brown but a little work would fix it up, he thought--as he climbed over the side and stepped quietly into...
Suddenly a green light appeared off the port bow. And the Vagabond, who at times is a timid soul, thought of the liquor that he had proudly extracted from Halifax without paying the Canadian tax. He turned off the running lights and headed the ship slowly up into the wind. But almost immediately the green light turned into red and green and the black form of a cost guard cutter came out full against the sky. It steamed closer, and came alongside. In a queer voice the Vagabond tried to be nonchalant. "Bound for Marblehead," he called. "Leaving Bar Harbor...
...save the Constitution." As he projected himself back into the days when first he heard those words, the Vagabond remembered the noisy campaign, with the bandying of "liberty," "democracy," and the "American form of government." He remembered the crowds, the noise, and the national frenzy that rose to a fever pitch one warm November day, and then subsided. He remembered hearing that golden voice as it swore to "preserve, protect, and defend" the Constitution. He remembered all these things--and then, as if in echo, he heard again, "We must take action to save the Constitution from the court...
Others had heard those words. Another voice, not so golden, not so sonorous, not so fluid, came back to the Vagabond. "These are serious times. Liberty is crumbling over two-thirds of the world. . . . The ultimate safeguard of liberty is the independence of the judiciary. . . . I give you a motto: 'Hands off the Supreme Court...
...golden, this voice? Ah, no! But now the truly golden voice seemed less reassuring. On it went, delightfully smooth, wonderfully resonant; but the flames, still fluttering, still dancing, slowly died out. Thus rudely brought back to April, 1938, the Vagabond let them die. Time enough to rekindle them later, he reflected; and, in imagination, he will watch the dancing fire and hear the golden voice as he listens to Professor Frankfurter tonight in the New Lecture Hall, speaking on "The Court and Mr. Justice Holmes: Civil Liberties and the Individual...