"That's all right," said Charlie, with an abashed laugh. "But it's just as well to have a clear understanding at the beginning--isn't it? Will you have a drink?" "I will swallow my pride, young sir--and I will take refreshment with you," said Mr. Ditchburn solemnly. "You needn't--if it hurts you at all," retorted Charlie, as he opened a cupboard and took out bottles and glasses. "Help yourself." Mr. Ditchburn helped himself liberally, and sat down; Charlie, philosophically understanding that he was in for an hour or two of the man's company, mixed for himself, and sat down also. When he produced a tobacco jar and a pipe Anthony's lean fingers twitched; he found from somewhere about his soiled dress a blackened old briar pipe, and ostentatiously blew through it to show that it was empty. Charlie pushed the tobacco across the table. "I doubt if I shall like your mixture," said Anthony, fingering it, "but tobacco in any form appeals to me." He filled the pipe, and lighted it, and sucked at it meditatively. During the next hour or so he mumbled over the pipe--removing it occasionally from between his teeth to utter some scathing criticism of the world and the world's methods--methods by which he had suffered. Charlie nodded fast to slumber, but woke himself now and then with a jerk, to answer vaguely some question that had been put to him fiercely by the old man. At last, as it grew on to one o'clock in the morning, and Anthony Ditchburn, having mixed himself many doses, and having also dug deep into the tobacco jar, was stretching out more comfortably in his chair, Charlie rose to his feet, and yawned, and looked despairingly at the clock. "I'm very sorry," he said, "but I've got a lecture in the morning, and I've got to turn out early. I'm dead tired; I shall go to bed." "Don't let me detain you," said Mr. Ditchburn, a little thickly. Charlie stared at him in perplexity. "Yes, but--I can't very well leave you here; it isn't--isn't exactly polite," he said. "Do not waste politeness on me," retorted Anthony, wagging his head at the fire, which had died down almost to nothing. "I am not used to it. If you insist upon my leaving you, I shall in all probability be discovered in a comatose state in the streets by some benevolent policeman; it is too far for me to walk to my humble lodging to-night--and cabs I cannot afford. Surely I am doing no harm in remaining here?" he added, stretching out his hand, and looking round at the young man. "Let me at least remain where I am warm; I can sleep anywhere. This chair is very comfortable--and I can reach the coal to replenish the fire without moving. Good-night!" Charlie would have removed the decanter with the remaining whisky in it before going, but at the very moment that he stretched out a hand for it Anthony Ditchburn also reached out towards it to replenish his glass. Charlie good-humouredly shrugged his shoulders, and went to bed.