There were friends, I suppose, at university; some of them I almost liked or at least respected. But they were hardly heroic figures. There was no Bohemia in Cambridge, probably never was. There were no late night conversations worthy of prose. One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the more central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an assortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out of doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee; others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of full meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in effect, meal tickets good for a week.There were precious few late night conversations. Perhaps they became accountants or civil servants. I doubt that they became philosophers; if they did, then I suppose it is the age that is to blame. I hope that they did not become philosophers. I hope that it is not the age that is to blame. Of course, I am whimsical.