The plate, bountifully helped, returned from hand to hand down the table, laden with prunes and maledictions. "I didn't know," Stover said apologetically. "Well, now you know," said the Coffee-colored Angel vindictively, "don't you so much as stir 'em with your spoon. Don't you dare!" Stover, being thus forbidden, calmly, wickedly, chuckling inwardly, emptied his plate, smacked his lips and exclaimed: "My! those are delicious. Pass my plate up for some more, will you, Mr. White?" "Now, why did you do that?" said Butsey White when they were alone in their room. "I couldn't help it. I just couldn't help it," said Stover ruthfully. "It was such a joke!" "Not from you," said Butsey White with Roman dignity. "You've got the whole darn house down on you already, and the Coffee-colored Angel will never forgive you." "Just for that?" Butsey White disdained an answer. Instead, he scanned Stover's clothes with critical disfavor. "Say, if I'm going to lead you around by the hand you've got to come down on that color scheme of yours, or it's no go." Stover, surprised, surveyed himself in the mirror. "Why, I thought that pretty fine." "Say, have you got a pair of trousers that's related to a coat?" Stover dove into the trunk and produced a blue suit that passed the censor, who had in the meanwhile confiscated the razor-tipped patent-leathers and the red-visored cap, saying: "Now you'll sink into the landscape and won't annoy the cows. Stick on this cap of mine and hoof it; you're due at the Doctor's in half an hour, and I promised old Fuzzy-Wuzzy to show you the lay of the land and give you some pointers." Outside, Cheyenne Baxter, who was pitching curves to Tough McCarty, stopped them: "Hello, there, Rinky Dink: turn up here sharp at four o'clock." "What for--sir," said Stover, surprised. "We've got a game on with the Cleve. Play baseball?" "I--I'm a little out of practice," said Stover, who loathed the game. "Can't help it; you're it. You play in the field. Four o'clock sharp." "You're the ninth man in the house," Butsey explained as they started for the school. "Every one has to play. Are you any good?" Stover was tempted to let his imagination run, but the thought of the afternoon curbed it. "Oh, I used to be pretty fair," he said half-heartedly, plunging into the distant past. But Stover had no desire to talk; he felt the thrill of strange sensations. Scarcely did he heed the chatter of his guide that rattled on. The road lay straight and cool under the mingled foliage of the trees. Ahead, groups of boys crossed and recrossed in lazy saunterings. "There's the village," said Butsey, extending his hand to the left. "First bungalow is Mister Laloo's, buggies and hot dogs. There's Bill Appleby's--say, he's a character, rolling in money--we'll drop in to see him. Firmin's store's next and the Jigger Shop's at the end." "The Jigger Shop!" said Stover, mystified. "What's that?" "Where they make Jiggers, of course." "Jiggers?"