He lifted his glass and held it unquivering above the table.
“That’s not you,” said Duncan. “You couldn’t do that yourself.”
“Not me?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“The absinthe. Only for the stuff you’ve drank, you’d be a pitiful, cowering, cringing creature this very minute.”
“Then here’s to absinthe!” laughed Hal, with a wave of his glass. “Here’s to absinthe, the magic potion which makes every man the commander of his own soul!”
“Until the cursed stuff takes command and wrecks both soul and body,” said Ditson. “I fear that time is not far away for you, Du Boise.”
Lynch now filled his lungs with a deep breath, betraying a sudden restlessness and an eager desire to leave the place.
“Let’s get out of here,” he urged. “I’m going to my room. I’m going to turn in. It’s a wonder we haven’t had newspaper reporters after us already. Of course by this time they all know of Merriwell’s drowning. We’ll have to tell the story until we’re sick of it in the morning. We’ll have to face both reporters and police. I’ve got to rest in order to do that.”