"Are you criticising my friends?" said Stover, who had just passed an even more unflattering judgment, due to the Welsh-rabbit episode. "I am," said McCarty, passing his hand over his forehead with difficulty. Stover was just about to make an angry reply when he looked at McCarty, who suddenly leaned back against the tree. At the same moment a feeling of insecurity overtook him. He started again to make an angry answer and then all pugnacious thoughts left him. He sat down suddenly, his head swam on his shoulders and about him the woods danced in drunken reelings, sweeping grotesque boughs over him. Only the earth felt good, the damp, muddy earth, which he all at once convulsively embraced. "Dink!" The sound was far off, weak and fraught with mortal distress. "Has it hit you, too?" Dink's answer was a groan. He opened one eye; McCarty, prone at his side, lay on his stomach, burying his head in his arms. At this moment a light patter sounded about them. "It's beginning to rain." "I don't care!" "Neither do I." Stover lay clutching the earth, that somehow wouldn't kept still, that moved under him, that swayed and rose and fell. Then things began to rush through his brain: armies of football-clad warriors, The Roman whirling by on one leg of his chair, Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan prancing impishly, sticking out his tongue at him, whole flocks of Sunday preachers gesticulating in his direction, crowds of faces, legs, arms, an old, yellow dog with a sausage in his mouth---- Suddenly near him McCarty began to move. "Where are you going?" he managed to say. "For Heaven's sake, don't leave me." "To the pond--drink." McCarty, on his hands and knees, began to crawl. Stover raised himself up and staggered after. The rain came down unheeded--nothing could add to his misery. They reached the pond and drank long copious drinks, plunging their dripping heads in the water. Gradually the vertigo passed. Faint and weak they sat propped up opposite each other, solemnly, sadly, glance to glance, while unnoticed the rain spouted from the ends of their noses. "Oh, Dink!" said Tough at last. "Don't!" "I thought I was going to die." "I'm not sure of it yet." "I had a lot I wanted to say to you," said Tough painfully, feeling the opportunity was slipping away. "You said I was smoking too much," said Dink maliciously. "Ugh! Don't--no, that wasn't it." "Shut up, old cockalorum," said Dink pleasantly. "I know all you want to say--found it out myself--it's all in one word--swelled head!" "Oh!" said Tough deprecatingly, now that Dink had turned accuser. "I've been a little, fluffy ass!" said Dink, marvelously stimulated to repentance by the episode which had gone before. "But that's over. My head's subsiding." "What?" The two burst into sympathetic laughter. "You--you didn't mind my sailing into you, old horse?" said Tough. "Not now." McCarty looked mystified.