Some of them might lag, but the guest of honour was not permitted to lag.
And all my austere nights of midnight oil, all the books I had read, all the wisdom I had gathered, went glimmering before the ape and tiger in me that crawled up from the abysm of my heredity, atavistic, competitive and brutal, lustful with strength and desire to outswine the swine.
And when the session broke up I was still on my feet, and I walked, erect, unswaying--which was more than can be said of some of my hosts.

I recall one of them in indignant tears on the street corner, weeping as he pointed out my sober condition.

Little he dreamed the iron clutch, born of old training, with which I held to my consciousness in my swimming brain, kept control of my muscles and my qualms, kept my voice unbroken and easy and my thoughts consecutive and logical.

Yes, and mixed up with it all I was privily a-grin.

They hadn't made a fool of me in that drinking bout.