order a little of his favourite beverage in return for his good opinion.
And thus as ever. Under the expert tuition of Raffles, Jack became a
little more of a "man" every day, and a little less of a decent fellow.
He smoked, he could call for a "small port" in quite an off-hand fashion,
he had played "shell out" with loafers at the little "'ouse," and he
began to know a little more of betting, "gee-gees," and other kindred
matters, than an average young fellow should know.

"_Facilis descensus Averni_"--you know the old tag.

By insensible gradations Jack Bourne found himself with a ruin of broken
rules behind him, and still tied to the chariot-wheels of Raffles, who
dragged him wherever he would. Jack's pockets, too, began to feel the
drain, but luckily--or unluckily, if you look at it properly--he was
rather flush this term, and as he had more than the usual allowance, he
was not so short as he might have been.

One thing bothered Jack, though he did not exactly put the idea that
worried him into words. There was not much fun _really_ in this
shooting, billiards, etc., since Jack broke all the rules alone. Now, if
Poulett, or Wilson, or Rogers, or Grim had been with him, that would have
been jolly. Besides that, since he could give his old chums so precious
little of his time, and had perforce to head them off when they offered
to bear him company on half-holidays, they called him many choice names.

"I hear they sample all the public-houses between here and Westcote,"
said Rogers. "Look what a dissipated eye Mr. Bourne's got."

"Yours will soon be groggy, Rogers, my pet, though you are cock of your
beastly water-lilies." After Sharpe's memorable poem, Biffen's house were