It was nearly twelve o'clock. Floyd walked down the street to his room. His necktie had been torn off, and his bruised feet and ankles caused him to limp gingerly. He raised an examining hand to his nose; from there it strayed to the bruise swelling under his right eye. He was very happy; he had had a good time, and he felt that he had done something now for his class—in a way, even for Harvard University. He was eager to see Stewart and talk the exciting evening over with him.
As he ascended the stairs, he wondered at the noise; then, when he opened the door, he stood bewildered. Stewart was in the middle of the room, ladling punch from a wash-bowl that was placed on his new mahogany desk; eight or ten fellows were grouped round him, pledging him with their glasses.
"Hello!" he cried. "Hello, Floyd!" He waved him forward from the doorway, and with an unsteady hand held out to him the glass he had filled. "Just in time. Cæsar's ghost! you're a mess!"
Floyd took the glass, embarrassed at becoming on the instant an object for many bright, young, intoxicated eyes.
"He's the fellow 1 was telling you about," Stewart continued. "I say we all drink to him—bumpers. Bumpers to a hero—and the fellow that saved my life! A-ay!"
"A-ay!" shouted his friends obediently. And they drank.
Stewart came up and threw his arm across Floyd's shoulders. The dripping ladle waved in his hand.
"Foolish old thing!" he said. "Fighting when you might have been drinking! Foolish old thing!"
"Why, but were n't you all out rushing with the class?" asked Floyd.
"No—been having a nice quiet noisy evening right at home. You," Stewart giggled,—"you've been out making enemies, and I've been home making friends. 'For he's a jolly good fellow'—"
The others took the song up and carried it on while
