“Ah-ha!” they cried. “That’s the talk! We knew he was a good fellow.” Merry turned to the waiter. “Bring me some Old Tom in a bottle,” he said. “I’ll take plain water for a chaser; no ginger ale or anything of that sort.” Instantly Hodge took the cue. “I think I’ll drink gin, too,” he said. “Make my chaser the same.” One of the students whispered to a companion. “Hodge has to do everything just the same as Merriwell does it.” “If they stick to gin, we’ll soak them both for keeps,” the other whispered back. The waiter disappeared, but soon returned with the bottle of Old Tom and the glasses. As Frank poured a goodly drink Fillmore started up the song “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” in which several of the others followed. Hackett rose, holding his glass of beer aloft. “Here’s to Frank Merriwell!” he cried. “Frank Merriwell, a star of the first magnitude. May that star never grow dim.” “Thank you,” bowed Merry smilingly. “You are exceedingly kind. Here is to you all, gentlemen. May you never be disappointed—unless you deserve to be.” They drank. Merry tossed off his drink at a gulp, barely wetted his lips with the “chaser,” then tossed the remaining contents of the glass over his shoulder and the rail of the veranda. Hodge made a wry face and did not touch his “chaser,” which was carried away by the waiter. Bart excused himself and followed the waiter inside. “Here, Tom,” he softly called. “Yes, sar,” said the waiter, pausing. Bart whispered something in his ear, at the same time slipping a dollar into his hand. The black fellow looked surprised and then grinned in a knowing manner. “Yes, sir! Thank yo’, sar!” he exclaimed. “I’ll look out fo’ it, sar—’deed I will. Don’t yo’ worry ’bout that.” Saying which, he took the glass left by Hodge from the tray and drained its contents. “I’ll drink all yo’ chasers, sar,” chuckled the colored man. Bart returned to the veranda. Some one else ordered a round of drinks. Frank and Bart took the same as before, while the others drank beer. Black Tom carried away two “chasers” on his tray, but the moment he was inside and out of sight, he drank both, tossing one down after the other and smacking his lips. “Dem chaps is slick,” he said. “Plain wattah makes a fine chaser fo’ gin. Yah! yah! Dis is a snap fo’ Tom!” Cigarettes were passed round by two of the college lads. Frank and Bart politely declined. Fillmore took one. “Don’t you smoke, Merriwell?” he asked. “Never.” “Why is that—on account of your wind?” “That is one reason.” “Well, I don’t smoke much myself. We’re not supposed to smoke at all, but a cigarette now and then never hurts me.” “Possibly not.” “Do you think it does?” “I can’t say. You may not have a taste for them, but you can cultivate the habit.” “Oh, that’s right; but when I find the habit growing on me I’ll stop altogether.” “It’s easy to say so.”