“No.”
“Well, you ought to!” Baker pushed back his chair, grinning broadly. At the sideboard he took up the water pitcher and stared dolefully into its empty depths. “I say, John, has it ever occurred to you that Cambridge water is at times awfully dry? I’ll swear I’ve got away with six glasses and my throat’s still sizzling. Well, so long.”
When he had gone Phillip tossed aside the paper and faced John. The latter met his look calmly and poured himself another glass of milk.
“Well, Phil, we came out on top,” he said.
“Yes. I reckon you’re mightily pleased. And—and every one.”
“Pleased is no name for it; we’re in the seventh heaven of delight. It was beautifully decisive, you see; there were no freaks of luck; it was all straight football, with every score well earned. This is my last year here, and I’m glad we finished up with a victory. It sort of rounds out things, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” Phillip stared absently at his hands. Then he faced John again. “Look here, John, tell me about last night. Did I—was I very bad?”
“Fair to middling,” answered the other. “How did it happen, Phil?”
“Oh, I don’t quite know. Chester said we’d ought to go into town for dinner. You see, we had seats for the theatre, and—we went to some queer dives and ate a lot of nasty stuff and drank—quite a bit; some sort of white wine. No, we had cocktails first. We met Guy Bassett and Boerick and Frazer and some other fellows at the theatre, and we went out and drank some more stuff. I reckon it was champagne; I don’t remember. Then the others went off somewhere and Chester and I sat down—no, we didn’t sit down, because some fellows had our seats and wouldn’t get out. That’s what started it.”
“I see.”