At the door, the vision of McNab, like a visiting English duke, bore down upon them. "Where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?" said Stover, examining him critically. "Why, Dopey, you're a dude!" said Hungerford disapprovingly. "Everything is correct--brilliant, but correct," said McNab with a flip of his fingers. "Come on now--we're late." Half way there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, McNab said cheerily: "How d'ye feel? Getting a little nervous, eh? Getting cold feelings up and down your back? Fingers twitching--what?" "Don't be an ass," said Hungerford huskily. "Chump," said Stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest. "'Course you know, boys, you're dressed all wrong--in shocking taste. You know that, don't you? Thought I'd better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you." "Huh!" "Joe's bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but Dink's unspeakable!" "I am! What's wrong?" "Fancy wearing a colored shirt--and such a color! You're gotten up for a boating party--not for a formal lunch. You're unspeakable, Dink, unspeakable! Look at me. I'm a delight--black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct." By this time they had reached the steps. "Now, don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. It always shows. Don't stumble or trip when you go in. Don't bump against the furniture. Don't stutter. Don't hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. And don't, _don't_ shoot your cuffs." McNab's malicious advice reduced Hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented Stover from bolting as he saw McNab press the button. "Stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets." "Dopey, I'll wring your neck if you don't stop!" "Ditto." "Say something interesting to every girl," continued McNab, in a solemn whisper. "Talk about art or literature." The door opened, and they stumbled into the ante-room, from which escape was impossible. "Dink," said McNab in a last whisper. "What?" "Don't ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff." The next moment Stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes. Judge Story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot--a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer. "Stover, I'm glad to shake your hand. We did all we could for you in those last rushes. We rooted hard. My wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. I certainly am proud to shake your hand. I won't shake it too long, because"--here he looked up in a confidential whisper--"because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. Look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and I'll fix it."