distressed him, and that was his invincible dislike for
the cigarette itself.

Being now a celebrity, many doors were thrown invitingly open to him,
invitations that flattered him, without his making a distinction. He
went over to the Upper at times and into rooms where he had no
business, immensely proud that he was called in to share the delights
and liberties of the lords of the school.

At the Kennedy he was in constant rebellion against established
precedent, constantly called below to be lectured by The Roman. In
revenge for which at night he made the life of Mr. Bundy one of
constant insomnia, and, by soaping the stairs or strewing tacks in the
hall, seriously interfered with that inexperienced young gentleman's
nightly exercises.

The deeper he went the deeper he was determined to go; doggedly
imagining that the whole Faculty, led by The Roman, were bending every
effort to bring him down and convict him.

The Tennessee Shad had no inclinations toward sporting life--greatly
to Stover's surprise. When Dink urged him to join the clandestine
parties he only yawned in a bored way.

"Come on now, Shad, be a sport," said Dink, repeating the stock
phrase.

"You're not sports," said the Tennessee Shad in languid derision,
"you're bluffs. Besides, I've been all through it, two years ago.
Hurry up with your dead-game sporting phase, if you've got to, but get
through it; 'cause now you're nothing but a nuisance."

Dink felt considerably grieved at his roommate's flippant attitude
toward his career of vice. Secretly, he felt that a word of kindly
remonstrance, some friendly effort to pull him back from the frightful
abyss into which he was sinking, would have been more like a friend
and a roommate.

This same callous indifference to the fate of his roommate's soul so
incensed Stover that, to bring before the Shad's eyes the really
desperate state of his morals, he appointed a Welsh-rabbit party in
their room for the following night.

"Don't mind, do you?" he said carelessly.

"Not if I don't have to eat it!"

"It's going to be a real one," said Stover, "making a distinction."

"Come off!"

"Fact. It is not going to be flavored with rootbeer, toothwash,
condensed milk or russet polish; it is going to be the genuine,
satisfaction guaranteed, or you get your money back."

"With beer?"

"Exactly."

"Yes, it is!"

"It is."

"Where'll you get it?"

"I have ways."

"Oh," said the Tennessee Shad sarcas