The lights, the stir of the audience, the boxes filled with the upper classmen, the gorgeous costumes, the sleepy pianist pounding out the accompaniments while accomplishing the marvelous feat of reading a newspaper, were all things to him of fascination. But his eye went not to the roguish professional glances, but lost itself somewhere above amid the ragged drops and borders. He was transported into the wonders of Dink-land, where one figure ran a hundred adventures, where a hundred cheers rose to volley forth one name, where a dozen games were passed in a second, triumphant, dazzling, filled with spectacular conflicts, blurred with frantic crowds of blue, ending always in surging black-hatted rushes that tossed him victoriously toward the stars! "Let's cut out," said McNab's distinct voice. "There's nothing but xylophones and coons left." "Come on over to Reynolds's." "Start up the game." Reluctantly, fallen to earth again, Stover rose and followed them out. In a moment they had passed through the fragrant casks and bottles that thronged the passage, saluting the statesmanly bulk of Hugh Reynolds, and found themselves in a back room, already floating in smoke. White, accusing lights of bracketed lamps picked out the gray features of a dozen men vociferously rolling forth a drinking chorus, while the magic arms of Buck Waters, his falcon's nose and little muzzle eyes, dominated the whole. A shout acclaimed them: "Yea, fellows!" "Shove in here!" "Get into the game." "Bartender, a little more of that brutalizing beer!" "Cheese and pretzels!" "Hello, Tough McCarthy!" "Over here, Dopey McNab." "Get into the orchestra." "Good boy, Stover!" "Congratulations!" "Oh, Dink Stover, have we your eye?" The last call, caught up by every voice, went swelling in volume, accompanied by a general uplifting of mugs and glasses. It was the traditional call to a health. "I'd like to oblige," said Dink, a little embarrassed, "but I'm in training." "That's all right--hand him a soft one." For the first time he perceived that there was a perfect freedom in the choice of beverage. He bowed, drained his glass, and sat down. "Oh, Dopey McNab, have we your eye?" "You certainly have, boys, and I'm no one-eyed man at that," said McNab, jovially disappearing down a mug, while the room in chorus trolled out: "_Drink the wine divine_ _As long as you can stand it._ _Hand the bowl around_ _As long as you can hand it._ _Drink your glass,_ _Drink your glass,_ _Dri-i-i-i-ink--he's drunk it down._" "Oh, Jim Hunter, have we your eye?" Each new arrival in turn, called to his feet, rose and drained his glass to a hilarious accompaniment, while Stover, to his surprise, noted that fully a third of the crowd were ordering soft drinks. "Oh, Dink Stover, here's to _you_!" From across the table Tommy Bain, lifting his glass of ginger ale, smiled a gracious smile. "Same to you, Tommy Bain."