It was about eleven when the club broke up its meeting. Previous to this there was a personal difficulty between Wilmot and Tracy, which resulted in a rough-and-tumble fight, in which Wilmot got the worst of it. How the quarrel arose no one could remember,—the principals least of all. At last they were reconciled, and were persuaded to shake hands.
They issued into the street, a noisy throng. Roswell's head ached, the punch, to which he was not accustomed, having affected him in this way. Besides this he felt a little dizzy.
"I wish you'd come home with me, Ralph," he said to his friend. "I don't feel quite right."
"Oh, you'll feel all right to-morrow. Your head will become as strong as mine after a while. I'm as cool as a cucumber."
"It's rather late, isn't it?" asked Roswell.
"Hark, there's the clock striking. I'll count the strokes. Eleven o'clock!" he said, after counting. "That isn't very late."
Ralph accompanied Roswell to the door of his mother's house in Clinton Place.
"Good-night, old fellow!" he said. "You'll be all right in the morning."
"Good-night," said Roswell.