“No,” said he. “Rid’klous. I’m not drunk. Other fellows are—drunk ash owls—tha’s why—couldn’t come see you. They’re not qui’ sort of men been acushtomed to assochate with—I’m—University man—like you, Quishtus—sometime Fellow Corpus Christi College, Cambridge—I first gave motto for club—didn’t I? _Procul, O procul este profani_—tha’s Latin. Other two lobsters don’t know word of Latin—ignorant as lobsters—lobsters—tha’s wha’ I call ’em.” He lurched heavily into a chair. “Awful thirsty. Got a drink, old f’la?” “No,” said Quixtus. “I haven’t. And if I had, I wouldn’t give it to you.” The reprobate pondered darkly over the announcement. Then he hiccoughed, and his face brightened. “Look here, dear old frien’——” Quixtus interrupted him. “Do you mean to tell me those other men are drunk too?” “As owls—you go down—see ’em.” He threw back his head and broke out into sudden shrill laughter. Then, checking himself, he said with an awful gravity; “I beg your pardon, Quishtus. Their conduc’s disgrace—humanity.” “You three have dined in this house once a week for years, and no one has left it the worse for liquor. And now, the first time I leave you to yourselves—I was really not able to join you to-night—you take advantage of my absence, and——” Huckaby staggered to his feet and tried to lay his hand on Quixtus’s shoulder. Having recovered himself, he put it on top of a case of prehistoric implements. “Tha’s just what I want—explain to you. They’re lobsters, dear ole’ friend—just lobsters—all claw and belly and no heart. I’m a University man like you. Corpush Christi College, Cambridge—They’re not friends of yours. They’re lobsters. Ruddy lobsters. I’m not drunk you know. I’m all right. I’m telling you——” Quixtus took him by the arm. “I think you had better go away, Huckaby.” “No. Send other fellows away. I’m your frien’,” said he, pointing a shaky forefinger. “I want to tell you. I’m a University man and so are you, and I don’t care how much you made out of it. You’re all right, Quishtus. I’m your frien’. Other lobsters said at dinner that if justice were done you’d be in quod.” Quixtus took the gaunt sot by the shoulders and shook him. “What the devil do you mean?” “Don’t, don’t—don’t upset good dinner,” said Huckaby wriggling away. “You won’t believe I’m your friend. Van and Billiter say you were in with Parable—Paramour—wha’s his name? all the time, and it’s just your rosy luck that you weren’t doing time too. Now I don’t care if you did stand in with Parachute—‘tisn’t my business. But I’ll stan’ by you. I, Eustace Huckaby, Master of Arts, sometime Fellow of Corpush Christi College, Cambridge. There’sh my hand.” He extended it, but Quixtus regarded it not. “The three of you have not contented yourselves with getting drunk, but you’ve been slandering me behind my back—foully slandering me.” He went to the door and flung it open. “I think it’s time, Huckaby, that we joined the others.”