Pliny Hastings ordered dinner for two with an ease and promptness that proved him to be quite accustomed to the proceeding; and Tode dodged hither and thither, and finally hovered near, and looked on with admiring eyes as the two ate and drank, and talked and laughed. Thus far in his life Tode had been, without being aware of it, a believer in "blood descent," distinct spheres in life, and all that sort of nonsense. He was a boy to be sure, but it had never so much as occurred to him that he could be even remotely connected with such specimens of boyhood as were before him now. Not that they were any better than he. Oh no, Tode never harbored such a thought for a moment; but then they were different, that he saw, and like many another unthinking mortal, he never gave a thought to the difference that home, and culture, and Christianity must necessarily make. But what nonsense am I talking! Tode didn't know there _were_ any such words, but then there _are_ people who _do_, and who reason no better than did he. While he looked and enjoyed, Pliny was seized with a new want, and leaned back in his chair with the query: "Where's Tompkins? Oh, Mr. Tompkins, here you are. Can you make Ben and me something warm and nice this cold day?" Mr. Tompkins paused in his rush through the room. "In a very few minutes, Master Hastings, I will be at your service. Let me see--could you wait five minutes?" Pliny nodded. "Very well then. Tode, you may come below in five minutes, and I shall be ready." Tode went and came with alacrity, and stood waiting and enjoying while the two drained their glasses. There was a little wet sugar left in the bottom of Pliny's glass, and he, catching a glance from Tode's watchful eye, suddenly held it forth, and spoke in kindly tone: "Want that, Todie?" Tode, a little taken aback, shook his head in silence. "You don't like leavings, eh? Get enough of the real article, I presume. How do they make this? I dare say you know, now you are at headquarters?" Tode shook his head again. "Belongs to the trade," he answered, with an air of wisdom. "Oh it does. Well how much of it do you drink in a day?" "Not a drop." "Bah!" Tode didn't resent this incredulous tone. He was used to being doubted; moreover he knew better than did any one else that there was no special reason for trusting him, so now he only laughed. "Come, tell us, just for curiosity's sake, I'd like to know how much your queer brain will bear. I won't tell of you." "You won't believe me," answered Tode coolly, "so what's the use of telling you." "I will, too, if you'll tell me just exactly. This time I'll believe every word." "Well then, not a drop." "Why not?" queried Pliny, still incredulous. "Don't you like it?" "Can't say. Never tasted it." "Weren't you ever where there was any liquor before?"