"I'm pretty good—Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table—all under the table."
"Good for you."
"Tom, you aren't—aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink, with all feeling of resentment gone.
"Lord, no, boy."
"'Cause it does me good—this does me good. I feel bad—pretty bad, Tom, about some things. You don't know—can't tell—but I feel bad—this does me good—forget—you understand."
"I understand."
"You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand—no one else understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night."
They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said:
"Feel all right, old bantam?"