"How do you do, Mr. White?" said Stover, recovering some of his composure.
"There's your kennel," said Butsey White, indicating the bed. "The washtrough's over here. Bath's down the corridor. Do you snore?"
"What?" said Stover, taken back.
"Oh, never mind. If you do I'll cure you," said White encouragingly. "What did they fire you for?"
Stover, smarting at his humiliation below, seized the opportunity for revenge.
"They fired me for drinking the alcohol out of the lamps," he said with his most convincing smile.
Butsey White, who had returned to the painful task of shaving, suddenly straightened up and extended the deadly razor in angry rebuke.
"There's a little too much persiflage around here," he said sternly. "We don't like it. We prefer to see young, unripe freshmen come in on their tiptoes and answer when they're spoken to. Young Stover, you've got in wrong. You're just about the freshest cargo we've ever had. You've got a lot to learn, and I'm going to start right in educating you. Savez?"
"It was only a joke," said Stover, looking down.
"A joke! I'll attend to any joking around here," said Butsey, with a reckless wave of his razor. "There may be a few patent, nickel-plated jokes roaming around here, soon, you hadn't thought of. Now, what did they fire you for?"