Word: vagabondism
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From the aeolian depths of the Park Street subway station, the Vagabond emerged into walls of rain and one of those incomparable Tremont Street typhoons. During a moment of vexation, he wondered if Orson Welles and Burgess Meredith were really worth all this. But Vag fought to subdue his sudden spurt of misanthropy and pushed on. After all, he told himself, he was about to have an opportunity to absorb the liquid words and sly wit of two great Thespians, and absolutely gratis, to boot. True, it wasn't a performance of "The Five Kings," but it was an interview...
Suddenly, with a grateful sigh, the Vagabond found himself in the blessed aridity of the lobby. He moved his toes and heard in unpleasantly decisive "squoosh," and he knew that he would have to go somewhere immediately and dry his shoes; he had heard rumors of Stillman's newly-adopted exclusiveness. But suddenly Vag completely for-got about wet shoes and infirmaries for there directly in front of him was a gigantic board, studded with pictures of his secret love is Hepburn, Vag mooned and sighed and fell into a cataleptic trance...
...sooner had the Vagabond been shoved behind a pillar than the estimable Mr. Welles and Mr. Meredith appeared. Vag gave up all hopes of trying to reach the stage to ask a few of his erudite questions, as he would have been in shreds by the time he got there. Consequently, he became resigned and settled down to hear the proceedings...
...little confidante on Vag's right. Vag was wet, he couldn't see, and now he couldn't even hear. He knew that if he didn't leave immediately, he would lose all control and commit the heinous offense of bashing together two female heads. Muttering insincere apologies, the Vagabond clambered over legs and seats and splashed his way to the nearest subway entrance...
...Vagabond reached for the usual coat...