"It is."
"Where'll you get it?"
"I have ways."
"Oh," said the Tennessee Shad sarcastically, "this is one of your real, sporting-life parties, is it?"
Stover disdained to answer.
"Is that bunch of slums going to be here?"
"Are you referring to my friends?" said Stover.
"I am," said the Tennessee Shad, "and all I ask while this feast of bacchanalian orgies is going on, is that I be allowed to sleep."
At eleven o'clock Stover, holding his shoes in his hand, went down the stairs to meet Slops in Fatty Harris' room and thence into the outlawed night. They stole over the crinkling snow, burying their noses in their sweaters, until, having climbed several fences, they arrived behind a shed of particularly cavernous appearance.
"Make the signal," said Slops, sheltering himself behind Stover.