When I grew lonesome for company, human company, I swam ashore, my clothes tied on top of my head to keep them dry, and, dressing, walked into Laurel. Where I lounged about for the day on the streets, or in the stores, or in the livery stables ... I knew everybody and everybody knew me, and we had some fine times, talking.
I had access to the local Carnegie Library as well as to the university "stack".
My food did not cost me above a dollar a week. For I went on a whole wheat diet, and threw my frying pan away.
I was the tramp, as ever, only I was stationary.
The opening days of the fall term came round again. Summer weather, hot and belated, lingered on. I was now more native to the river than to life in a four-walled room and on street pavements.
I debated seriously whether I should return to classes, or just keep on studying as I was, staying in my tent, and taking books out at the two libraries. I knew that they'd allow me to continue drawing out books at the university, even though I attended classes no longer—Professor Langworth would see to that.
Also, most of the professors would whisper "good riddance" to themselves. I camped at their gates too closely with questions. I never accepted anything as granted. The "good sports" among them welcomed this attitude of mine, especially the younger bunch of them—who several times invited me to affairs of theirs, behind closed blinds, where good wine was poured, and we enjoyed fine times together....
I was invited on condition that I would not let the student-body know of these sub rosa fiestas. Which were dignified and unblameworthy ... only, wine and beer went around till a human mellowness and conversational glow was reached.