"I'm goin' to stop. Solemn promish."
He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry.
"I see it—see it plainly—perfect self-control. What's that?" The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: "Don't fool me—might fool Dopey—Tom Kelly—weak head—don't fool me—illushion, pure illushion—know all 'bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees."
"Well, Dink, pickled again," said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world.
He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others.
"All right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all."
"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words—man to man."
Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely.
"Good."