Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him. "Must get there--self-control--that's it, self-control," he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of Regan's vision, sat heavily down on the steps. Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas. "Who are you?" he said. "Wookey, sir." "What's your class?" "Freshman, sir." "Very well. All right. You can help me--help me up. You know me?" "Yes, sir." The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog. "Who are you?" he said, frowning. "Wookey, sir." "Where do you room?" "On the first landing, sir." "Why do you wear pink ones?" The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out: "Don't you like 'em, sir?" "Keep 'em on," said Stover magnanimously. "So you're a freshman." "Yes, sir." Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him. "Freshman," he said thickly, "I want you listen to me. Never drink to excess--understand. You beginning college--school of character--hold on yourself--lead a good life--self-control's the great thing--take it from me--understand?" "Yes, sir," said Wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he was rendering to the great Dink Stover. "That's all," said Stover benignly. "Is--is my bedroom still there?" "Yes, sir." "You may lead me to it." When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said: "I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." Then he said to himself: "It does me good--forget--happy now." A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep. CHAPTER XXI Night after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say: "Hello, Wookey, how are you to-night?" "All right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance. "All right myself," Stover would answer. "See you to-morrow. Good night." Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met.