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This is a tale of frustration and humiliation--frustration by noisome political petty-wigs and humiliation by raneonsly alluring teen-aged giggle ettes.
The fallen is a man of lofty station, in keeping with the best traditions of tragedy. He is a man high in the Hierarchy of the University, a champion of righteous respectability, the sometime student godfather and alltime student watchdog, and a driver of sporty Fontiacs.
The place Massachusetts Avenue, an artery carrying much good and much had, much innocent and much deceiving.
The time last night with its gently stirring, inhibition crushing breezes; and its horn blowing auto parades and other clap-trap of small town pre electioneering.
A quiniet of giggle ettes frina past Leavitt's their generous forms rivalled only by the generality of their smile. A seasoned Harvardian looks up, perceives, and turns into Liggett's screne in the knowledge that less-knowing classmates are secure against such sirens, the guardian watching is over alert.
Even so, the watchdog's Pontiac creeps in the shadows on the Wigglesworth side of the avenue. Blind to all else, his eye follows the quintet's every move.
Then up the street comes the horn-blowing auto parade and other claptrap of small town electioneering. A long unbreakable chain of vehicles and each is filled with happy political petty wigs, insensible to every concept of higher duty.
Dedicated to a noble creed the protection of the innocent against the deceiving, the watchdog sees not the ensnaring chain approaching. And suddenly he is trapped, hemmed to the curb by the long chain of cars passing by and the drivers anaware that they are the feels of an insidious force.
In, two quite less Freshman are being led away by the giggle ettes. These pretty ones loss a smile of triumph and scorn to the watchdog, champion of all that is food and righteous and respectable, but hemmed to the curb by the cars of political petty wigs who know not what they do.
Also, poor watchdog.
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