With such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility. Stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds, matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here as elsewhere. Regan, after two tobies, withdrew from the contest, sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at interference. Bob Story and Hungerford came in, and went away with a glance at Stover's clouded face and Regan's stolid, unfathomable expression. When midnight arrived, and Louis came in with apologies to announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid. Stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of what he had taken. He felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood firm, and his head was still under control. Buck Waters and a Sheff man took Tom Kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling match or a foot race with too zealous members of the New Haven police force; and Stover had the fierce pride of showing Regan that he could take charge of the hilarious but wabbly Dopey McNab, who, moved by the finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his superfluous change among his brother beings. With great dignity and impressiveness, Stover, supporting one side, continued to give foggy directions to Regan on the other, until, come to McNab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure. Stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and minute pains. "Dopey's got weak head--no good--stand nothing," he said seriously to Regan. "Well, we've fixed him up for the night," said Regan cheerily. "You've got a wonderful top, old sport." "I'm pretty good--Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table--all under the table." "Good for you." "Tom, you aren't--aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink, with all feeling of resentment gone. "Lord, no, boy." "'Cause it does me good--this does me good. I feel bad--pretty bad, Tom, about some things. You don't know--can't tell--but I feel bad--this does me good--forget--you understand." "I understand." "You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand--no one else understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night." They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said: "Feel all right, old bantam?" "Fine." Stover took a step or two, and then returned. "I put 'em to bed, didn't I?" "You certainly did." "Never 'fects me." "You're a wonder." "I thank you for your company." "Good night."