At the Kennedy he was in constant rebellion against established precedent, constantly called below to be lectured by The Roman. In revenge for which at night he made the life of Mr. Bundy one of constant insomnia, and, by soaping the stairs or strewing tacks in the hall, seriously interfered with that inexperienced young gentleman's nightly exercises. The deeper he went the deeper he was determined to go; doggedly imagining that the whole Faculty, led by The Roman, were bending every effort to bring him down and convict him. The Tennessee Shad had no inclinations toward sporting life--greatly to Stover's surprise. When Dink urged him to join the clandestine parties he only yawned in a bored way. "Come on now, Shad, be a sport," said Dink, repeating the stock phrase. "You're not sports," said the Tennessee Shad in languid derision, "you're bluffs. Besides, I've been all through it, two years ago. Hurry up with your dead-game sporting phase, if you've got to, but get through it; 'cause now you're nothing but a nuisance." Dink felt considerably grieved at his roommate's flippant attitude toward his career of vice. Secretly, he felt that a word of kindly remonstrance, some friendly effort to pull him back from the frightful abyss into which he was sinking, would have been more like a friend and a roommate. This same callous indifference to the fate of his roommate's soul so incensed Stover that, to bring before the Shad's eyes the really desperate state of his morals, he appointed a Welsh-rabbit party in their room for the following night. "Don't mind, do you?" he said carelessly. "Not if I don't have to eat it!" "It's going to be a real one," said Stover, "making a distinction." "Come off!" "Fact. It is not going to be flavored with rootbeer, toothwash, condensed milk or russet polish; it is going to be the genuine, satisfaction guaranteed, or you get your money back." "With beer?" "Exactly." "Yes, it is!" "It is." "Where'll you get it?" "I have ways." "Oh," said the Tennessee Shad sarcastically, "this is one of your real, sporting-life parties, is it?" Stover disdained to answer. "Is that bunch of slums going to be here?" "Are you referring to my friends?" said Stover. "I am," said the Tennessee Shad, "and all I ask while this feast of bacchanalian orgies is going on, is that _I_ be allowed to sleep." At eleven o'clock Stover, holding his shoes in his hand, went down the stairs to meet Slops in Fatty Harris' room and thence into the outlawed night. They stole over the crinkling snow, burying their noses in their sweaters, until, having climbed several fences, they arrived behind a shed of particularly cavernous appearance. "Make the signal," said Slops, sheltering himself behind Stover. Blinky appeared like a monster of the night. "Hist, Blinky, O. K.?" said Slops, who, having his shoulder to Dink's recovered his sporting manner. "Got the booze?"