On the table in the center of the room stood a platter of chicken sandwiches and also several bottles containing beer and wine, and a box of cigars. Evidently all of the crowd had been eating and drinking, and now several were filling the apartment with tobacco smoke.
"Come, smoke up, Moss," cried Lew Flapp, shoving the box of cigars toward one of the younger cadets. "Don't be afraid. It won't kill you."
"Thank you, Flapp, but I—I guess I won't to-night," pleaded Harry Moss, whose face was strangely, flushed.
"Why not?"
"I—I—don't feel well. The drinking has made me feel sick."
"Oh, nonsense! Here, take this cigar and smoke up. It will brace your nerves. And you, Davis, have another glass of something to drink," went on Lew Flapp, pouring out a glassful and handing it to the one addressed.
"Thank you, Flapp, but I don't want any more," answered Joe Davis. He looked as ill at ease as did Harry Moss.
"Don't you want to be sociable?" demanded the tall boy.
"It isn't that, Flapp. I—I guess I've had enough already."
