This exceedingly handsome way of putting things appealed even to Linklater's selfish soul.
"Well, perhaps you are right," he growled. "But why can't you be a sportsman and join in?"
Pip laughed.
"I wonder how many good chaps have gone to the devil through fear of not being thought 'sportsmen,'" he said. "No, Link, old man, I won't join in. I have my vices, but whiskey-punch in tooth-mugs at 2 A.M. isn't one of them."
"Very well," said Linklater ungraciously. "Sorry to have disturbed your slumbers. I'll tell the chaps to meet in the East Dormitory tonight. Sure Maxwell will be pleased to see us!"
Pip stood up and sighed heavily. He knew he was dealing what would probably be its deathblow to one of the few friendships he really valued, but this was no time for ignoble compromises. He leaned rather dejectedly against the mantelpiece, this David, and looked down upon the unworthy Jonathan before him.
"Link, the whole business has got to be dropped—absolutely. Surely you've got the sense to see that."
He spoke almost appealingly, still clutching at the fast receding hope that his friend would pull himself together yet. But he saw in a moment that the hope was a vain one. Linklater's teeth shut with a snap, and his eyes blazed.
"Drop it, must I? Indeed? And who is going to stop me? You, I suppose, you—you swab!"
Pip put his last regrets from him, and answered briskly—