Phillip awoke the next forenoon with the sun shining warmly across his face, the church bells tolling and Tudor Maid anxiously awaiting breakfast. His first feeling was one of dissatisfaction at the nastiness of his mouth and the heaviness of his head. But before his eyes had blinked twice the memory of the preceding afternoon came to him. He smiled happily, turned over, laid his tousled brown head on one arm and stared unseeingly at the chimney of the next house. Twenty minutes passed. Maid arose, sniffed inquiringly at his hand, sighed, and flopped herself down again in the patch of sunlight. Phillip laughed aloud at some recollection and woke himself from his dreaming. Jumping blithely out of bed, he fed Maid from the store of biscuits kept in the closet for just such emergencies—a repast which the dog accepted under protest—took his bath and dressed himself, singing “Up the Street” martially and pausing suddenly in the middle of a bar to stand[164] motionless and smile idiotically at his reflection in the mirror.

Phillip was in love. And he knew it. And he wouldn’t have been in any other condition for all the wealth of the world.

He was riotously happy; happy in spite of the fact that he had made a fool of himself the evening before, that his head felt as though it had been bored open and filled with lead, that his mouth, in spite of numerous draughts of water cold from the bathroom faucet, tasted as he imagined the inside of a brass pipe must taste, that he would have to go to a restaurant for breakfast, and that he didn’t want breakfast anyway.

He took Maid with him to a subterraneous lunch room in the square and fed her lamb chops and doughnuts, finding that his own appetite refused anything save coffee and toast. Afterward—it was too late for church—he walked up the avenue past Porter’s Station, struck off northward and got lost in darkest Somerville. Maid had a glorious time of it, and Phillip, when he at last reached The Inn for lunch, found that he had walked the lead out of his head and the bad taste from his mouth. When he had finished his[165] lunch he went upstairs and found John and Laurence Baker.

“Are you going back to your room?” he asked the former. “I want to see you for a few minutes.”

“All right. Sit down. Have you had lunch?”

“Yes,” answered Phillip. “I’ll wait for you.” He sprawled himself out on the window-seat in the sunlight and tried to interest himself in the Sunday paper, aware all the while that Baker was eyeing him quizzically across the table.

“Have you seen my kid brother lately, Ryerson?” asked Baker presently.

“I was with him last night,” answered Phillip from behind the sheet. “We were in town.”

“Ah; indeed? Haven’t seen him this morning yet?”

“No.”

“Well, you ought to!” Baker pushed back his chair, grinning broadly. At the sideboard he took up the water pitcher and stared dolefully into its empty depths. “I say, John, has it ever occurred to you that Cambridge water is at times awfully dry? I’ll swear I’ve got away with six glasses and my throat’s still sizzling. Well, so long.”

When he had gone Phillip tossed aside the paper[166] and faced John. The latter met his look calmly and poured himself another glass of milk.

“Well, Phil, we came out on top,” he said.

“Yes. I reckon you’re mightily pleased. And—and every one.”

“Pleased is no name for it; we’re in the seventh heaven of delight. It was beautifully decisive, you see; there were no freaks of luck; it was all straight football, with every score well earned. This is my last year here, and I’m glad we finished up with a victory. It sort of rounds out things, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes.” Phillip stared absently at his hands. Then he faced John again. “Look here, John, tell me about last night. Did I—was I very bad?”

“Fair to middling,” answered the other. “How did it happen, Phil?”

“Oh, I don’t quite know. Chester said we’d ought to go into town for dinner. You see, we had seats for the theatre, and—we went to some queer dives and ate a lot of nasty stuff and drank—quite a bit; some sort of white wine. No, we had cocktails first. We met Guy Bassett and Boerick and Frazer and some other fellows at the theatre, and we went out and drank some more stuff. I reckon[167] it was champagne; I don’t remember. Then the others went off somewhere and Chester and I sat down—no, we didn’t sit down, because some fellows had our seats and wouldn’t get out. That’s what started it.”

“I see.”

“Yes. We told them we had the checks and they said we’d have to show them. I had mine, but Chester couldn’t find his. So he grabbed the nearest fellow—the seats were on the aisle—and pulled him onto the floor and yelled for me to slug the other chap. So I slugged him. By that time every one was standing up and telling us to ‘Go it, Bill,’ and then they began to crowd around us. I don’t know just what happened, but the other fellow and I were having it under the seats. There wasn’t room to do anything except hold on to each other, and so we did that and called each other names. I remember he said I was a ‘contumelious cub,’ only he was drunk and couldn’t say it plain, and that made me mad, and——”

“And Davy and I dragged you both out by your heels and got you away from the strong arm of the law,” finished John. “We had some trouble doing it. Chester insisted on fighting the whole[168] crowd and that nearly queered us. We had just managed to make them understand that it was all fun, when it dawned on him that there were police present and that it was his bounden duty to do them up. But it ended all right. We got you and Chester into a hack and brought you home. What became of Kingsford and that tall, black-haired youngster I don’t know. But I guess they got off all right.”

“Kingsford?” asked Phillip, drawing his brows together. “Was he there?”

“Was he there! Do you mean that you didn’t know it was Kingsford you were mauling under the seats?”

Phillip groaned.

“Honest, John?”

“Honest Injun.”

“I must have been pretty bad. I didn’t recognize him at all. Why, he’s—he’s a chum!” John smiled.

“Chum, eh? And you were just showing him how much you loved him, I suppose? Well, it’s all past now, Phil. I’m not sure, though, that it isn’t my duty as your—hem—guardian, Phil, to read you a short lecture.”

[169]

“Go ahead. I wish you would. I wish you’d kick me! I—oh, hang it, John, I’m an awful dunce!”

“Well, let’s get outdoors. Now, I’m not altogether the right kind to lecture any one on the subject of getting drunk, Phil. Unless, as I’ve seen it stated, experience is necessary to the making of a good preacher. In my own coltish days I made a bit of an ass of myself. As a freshman I thought it was incumbent on me to drink a good deal, and I have unpleasant recollections of three occasions when—well, when I made as big a fool of myself as it is allowed any man. So you see, Phil, if you emulate my example you’ve got two more coming to you. Only—well, I think I’d pattern myself on some one else and let the other two go by forfeit.”

They had reached Little’s and John led the way to his room, explaining that David had returned to New York with his father. He pushed a window wide open and thrust a chair up to it, taking the window-seat himself, clasping his big, brown hands over his knees. Phillip, looking at the clear-cut features and kindly, honest eyes, tried to associate them with scenes of drunken orgies, and failed.

[170]

“I don’t believe you were ever nasty-drunk, John!” he declared warmly and with conviction. John turned, smiling, and read some of the admiration in the other’s eyes.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ve been just as much of a brute as other chaps. Don’t try to make a hero of me, Phil; I’m poor stuff.”

“I don’t believe it,” answered Phillip, doggedly.

“Don’t? Well—I’m glad you don’t, old man. I like people to like me and I want you to if you can.”

Phillip smiled at a recollection. “I reckon you like people that you like to like you?” he asked.

“That’s it,” answered John, reflecting the smile. “And that means I like you, Phillip of Virginia.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean that!” protested Phillip. “I—I was just quoting somebody.”

“All right; you needn’t apologize. Now, about last night. As I was saying, you can get drunk pretty often, if you want to, without being any worse than some other fellows in college who are well liked and respected. But it won’t do you a speck of good, Phil, not a speck. And life is such a short track at the most that I don’t believe a fellow has time to do negative things. The mere fact that a thing’s not going to harm you doesn’t make it[171] worth doing; stick to the things that will produce some good, that will better you if only a little. After all, it isn’t especially necessary to get drunk. I don’t believe that a fellow who drinks more than is good for him is any manlier than the fellow who doesn’t. Besides, it’s an expensive habit, drinking.”

“It is,” agreed Phillip dolefully.

“Well?”

“Oh, I’ve quit, John; honestly! Last night was enough. I hate to see other fellows make beasts of themselves and I hate to think that I’ve gone and done it myself. I don’t mean that I’m going to become a total abstainer, for I don’t think that’s necessary, do you? We have always had wine on the table at home and—and I’ve never thought much about it. Down our way we ride hard and drink the same way. But I think you’re right about it, John, and—and I’m going to take mighty good care that it doesn’t happen again.”

“All right, Phil. By the way, have you heard from your folks lately?”

“Yes, I had a letter Friday.”

“All well, I hope?”

“Yes; except mamma. You know she’s right poorly all the time.”

[172]

“I beg your pardon; I’d forgotten.”

“Margey wrote that they were both counting the days until Christmas. I’m beginning to look forward to going home, too.”

“Yes. I wish my folks were going to be at home for Christmas. A fellow feels rather out of it if he can’t spend Christmas by his own fireside. As it is, I suppose I’ll go home with Davy for a few days.”

“I wish you’d come with me,” cried Phillip, eagerly.

“Thanks; that’s awfully nice of you. But I don’t believe a chap’s folks care very much about having strangers around at Christmas.”

“Why, mamma and Margey would be awfully pleased,” declared Phillip. “I wish you would come. Of course, we’re not so swell as David, I reckon, but I could show you a good time. We could get up a fox hunt, and maybe there’d be some partridges left. Will you?”

“Hm; you tempt me sorely, my child. But—— Well, we’ll think it over.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some birds,” continued Phillip, “for Margey wrote that Nate Willis was staying there for a few days and that he’d had good shooting.”

[173]

“Who’s Nate Willis, may I ask?”

“Nate? Well, he’s one of the Richmond Willises, you know.”

“Indeed? And am I to presume from that that he’s a person of family and prominence?”

“Yes, I reckon so. We’re related in some way; mamma knows.”

“And is—er—is he a frequent caller at your place?”

“Oh, he comes up right often.”

“I see.” John drew his feet off the cushion and sat up. “On second thoughts, Phil, I’m not sure that I won’t accept your invitation now. At any rate, you might sound your folks and see what they think of entertaining a stranger for a couple of days.”

“But you’re not exactly a stranger, you know,” said Phillip.

“Thank you, old man. What do you say to a short walk?”

So they strolled through the Yard, across the Delta and down Divinity Avenue under arching boughs, bare save for an occasional yellow leaf twirling lazily about in the afternoon breeze. They crossed Norton’s Field, rustling through the little patch of woodland, and turned back by Irving[174] Street, pausing to admire the park-like expanse whereon are grouped four highly satisfactory examples of public building architecture. John pointed out the high school and the Latin school, and the public library on............