"What's that!--oh, yes, h'm--quite right--free, rather free, Dink--not bad, not bad for freshman." "Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously. "All right." "All my influence," said Stover. "Wookey," said McNab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. Con-grath-ulate you." Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses. McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head: "Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are." Stover chose to be offended. "Why you say that?" "'Cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!" "What right you got to say that?" "Every right--every," said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "I'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's diff, see?" "Ratsh!" "I remember," said McNab all at once. "I know what I want say. I'm going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey'll be the judge--referee--y'willin'?" "Willin'." "'M going to give moral lecture," said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "I'm fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond--very worried, too, want him to stop drinking--bad for him--bad for any one, but bad for him!" Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh. "He's laughin' at me, Wookey," said McNab in a grieved voice. "He means by that insultin' laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. But there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. When I take 'n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy--y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. That's the point--you're ref'ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That's the point, y'understand. I want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce--I'm bad example." "You're my friend?" said Stover, overcome. "You're besh friend." "Shake hands." "Shure." "Dopey, I tell you truth--confide in you," said Stover, slipping down beside him. "Swear." "Swear." "Never tell." "Never!" "I'm unhappy." "No!" "Drink to forget, y'understand." "Must stop it," said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front. "Going to shtop it," said Stover, "soon--stop soon--promise." "Promish?" "Promise! Y'understand, want to forget." "Must stop it," repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover. "Promish," repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: "I shay." "Shay it." "What--what I going to stop?" "What you, what--" McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. "Stop--must stop--promish--what--what stop?" The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory.