More men came out of the place, some of them staggering. With the new arrivals came one whom Dick and his friends rightly guessed to be Miller—-a thickset man, with swaggering manner, insolent expression and rough voice.
"What's this about your going home, Drake?" demanded one of the new arrivals.
"I—-I really ought to go home," Drake tried to explain.
"Cut that out," ordered Miller roughly. "You're booked to spend the evening with us, and the evening has hardly begun."
"I promised this young fellow I'd go home," said Drake slowly, "so I guess I will."
"And what has this young feller got to say or do about it?" demanded Miller angrily, as He pushed his way to Drake's side, then glared at Dick Prescott.
"And what have you got to say about his not going home?" Dick asked hotly. "Isn't this a free country, where a man may go home when he chooses?"
"It's a free country, and a man has a right to spend his evening in my place when he's invited," Miller asserted roughly.
"Yes; your invitation will hold until his month's pay is gone from his pocket," Dick flashed back. "That's all you want. Drake has sense enough to see that, and he's leaving you."
"He isn't going home for three hours yet, or anywhere else!" snorted Miller, whose breath proclaimed the fact that he had been using some of his own goods.