Three new fellows followed the knock into the room. They were noisily greeted by Stout and Harrington. In the confusion it was some time before Rex was introduced.
Tom Cheever was a tall youth, continually feeling of his upper lip as if to see if his mustache had arrived; Dan Tilford had a narrow face, pallid from much cigarette smoking, and an eye that never seemed fixed on any object he gazed at; Harry Atkins was a handsome fellow of eighteen, who seemed of quieter temperament than the others.
Stout gave an order to the boy who had shown the last callers up, and the lad presently appeared staggering under a big bowl of what Stout declared was the “rummest punch” New York could brew.
“Help yourselves, fellows!” he cried. “Remember that the last night of vacation only comes once a year.”
The room was already filled with cigarette smoke. Two or three of these cigarettes had been offered to Rex, but he had declined with a vacillating “Not now, thank you.”
When the punch was passed around he took the glass that was handed to him, but only pretended to drink. He did not care for liquor; he knew that it would give him a headache. He was having a terribly stupid time as it was. It was not worth while to aggravate it by the addition of physical suffering.
He was appalled at the swiftness with which the others tossed off the drink. It seemed scarcely five minutes before Stout was calling out:
“Fill ’em up again, men! Here’s to the coming year. May none of us be plucked and ponies be plentiful.”
He took up glass after glass and refilled it. Rex saw what was coming and tried to be prepared for it.
“Why, Pell!” exclaimed the hospitable host, “you haven’t drunk a drop. What does this mean?”