d'sh all right, Martin."

"To be sure it is, Mr. Peters. Now will ye rest aisy awhile, sir?"

"I'm axphyxiated," cried another voice from the darkness, the mined
voice of Jerome Kyme, our classmate.

"Get the tackles under him!" came forth in commanding tones from
Conybear.

In the meantime many windows had been raised and much gratuitous
advice was being given. The three occupants of the cab's seat who
had previously clamoured for Mr. Peters' removal, now inconsistently
resisted it; suddenly he came out with a jerk, and we had him fairly
upright on the pavement minus a collar and tie and the buttons of his
evening waistcoat. Those who remained in the cab engaged in a riotous
game of hunt the slipper, while Tom peered into the dark interior,
observing gravely the progress of the sport. First flew out an overcoat
and a much-battered hat, finally the pumps, all of which in due time
were adjusted to his person, and I started home with him, with much
parting counsel from the other three.

"Whereinell were you, Hughie?" he inquired. "Hunted all over for you.
Had a sousin' good time. Went to Babcock's--had champagne--then to see
Babesh in--th'--Woods. Ham knows one of the Babesh had supper with four
of 'em. Nice Babesh!"

"For heaven's sake don't step on me again!" I cried.

"Sh'poloshize, old man. But y'know I'm William Shakespheare. C'n do
what I damplease." He halted in the middle of the street and recited
dramatically:--

"'Not marble, nor th' gilded monuments
Of prinches sh'll outlive m' powerful rhyme.'"

"How's that, Alonzho, b'gosh?"

"Where did you learn it?" I demanded, momentarily forgetting his
condition.

"Fr'm Ralph," he replied, "says I wrote it. Can't remember...."

After I had got him to bed,--a service I had learned to perform with
more or less proficiency,--I sat down to consider the events of the
evening, to attempt to get a proportional view. The intensity of my
disgust was not hypocritical as I gazed through the open door into the
bedroom and recalled the times when I, too, had been in that condition.
Tom Peters drunk, and sleeping it off, was deplorable, without doubt;
but Hugh Paret drunk was detestable, and had no excuse whatever. Nor
did I mean by this to set myself on a higher ethical plane, for I
felt nothing but despair and humility. In my state of clairvoyance
I perceived that he was a better man, than I, and that his lapses
proceeded from a love of liquor and the transce