He is a “fast” fellow, as the Senior calls him; and it is a proud thing to happen at their rooms occasionally, and to match yourself for an hour or two (with the windows darkened) against a Senior at “old sledge.”  It is quite “the thing,” as Dalton says, to meet a Senior familiarly in the street.  Sometimes you go, after Dalton has taught you “the ropes,” to have a cosy sit-down over oysters and champagne,—­to which the Senior lends himself with the pleasantest condescension in the world.  You are not altogether used to hard drinking; but this you conceal—­as most spirited young fellows do—­by drinking a great deal.  You have a dim recollection of certain circumstances—­very unimportant, yet very vividly impressed on your mind—­which occurred on one of these occasions.

The oysters were exceedingly fine, and the champagne exquisite.  You have a recollection of something being said, toward the end of the first bottle, of Xenophon, and of the Senior’s saying in his playful way, “Oh, d—­n Xenophon!”

You remember Dalton laughed at this; and you laughed—­for company.  You remember that you thought, and Dalton thought, and the Senior thought, by a singular coincidence, that the second bottle of champagne was better even than the first.  You have a dim remembrance of the Senior’s saying very loudly, “Clarence—­(calling you by your family name)—­is no spooney;” and drinking a bumper with you in confirmation of the remark.

You remember that Dalton broke out into a song, and that for a time you joined in the chorus; you think the Senior called you to order for repeating the chorus in the wrong place.  You think the lights burned with remarkable brilliancy; and you remember that a remark of yours to that effect met with very much such a response from the Senior as he had before employed with reference to Xenophon.

You have a confused idea of calling Dalton—­Xenophon.  You think the meeting broke up with a chorus, and that somebody—­you cannot tell who—­broke two or three glasses.  You remember questioning yourself very seriously as to whether you were, or were not, tipsy.  You think you decided that you were not, but—­might be.

You have a confused recollection of leaning upon some one, or something, going to your room; this sense of a desire to lean, you think, was very strong.  You remember being horribly afflicted with the idea of having tried your night-key at the tutor’s door, instead of your own; you remember further a hot stove,—­made certain indeed by a large blister which appeared on your hand next day.  You think of throwing off your clothes by one or two spasmodic efforts,—­leaning in the intervals against the bedpost.

There is a recollection of an uncommon dizziness afterward, as if your body was very quiet, and your head gyrating with strange velocity, and a kind of centrifugal action, all about the room, and the college, and indeed the whole town.  You think that you felt uncontrollable nausea after this, followed by positive sickness,—­which waked your chum, who thought you very incoherent, and feared derangement.