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around the corner into an alley. An unobtrusive doorway let into a quiet but crowded establishment, with the risible name of the Ubiquitous Chip. The host looked them over cautiously, judging them to be sober enough not to make trouble, and escorted them to a long table.
    The restaurant, uncomfortably like an American fern bar in decor, proved to have a genius making desserts in the kitchen. Keith licked his spoon thoughtfully and wondered if he should order a second selection. He decided against it, and amused himself throwing leftover crumbs to the enormous goldfish in the fountain that ran along one side of the main room.
    On top of homemade ice cream, mousses, and tortes, the others poured down wine and liqueurs, and discussed with great interest the events of the day. Matthew was acclaimed a hero for his great find, and decided on his own reasons for the interment of the covered jar. He was in a mood to take no prisoners, which the others took as a personal challenge.
    “Well, what do you know about it anyway?” Martin asked challengingly. “All you’ve ever dug up before is your Mum’s tulip bulbs.”
    Keith and Holl plowed straight into the thick of a loud and passionate argument about whether or not the professor was right in his theories. The languid, sullen pose assumed by most of the boys turned out to be nothing more than a pose. Something important had actually happened, progress had been made, and they were a part of it. Their daily lives must have fallen into one unmarked by change or excitement. They were bored, and pretended they didn’t care. Hard work did bring out the best in some people. Keith grinned to himself. No one who felt like taking it easy would have joined a tour like this to begin with.
    As the wait staff began to clear the surrounding tables, Edwin rose to his feet. “Let’s go. We can talk in the pubs until closing time.”
    “Where should we go?” Matthew asked. The others started to argue for their favorites.
    “How about the King’s Head?” Martin suggested.
    “Why not the Black Bull? It’s only across the road.”
    “What about the Curlers?”
    Keith snickered at the names. “What’s that, a combination pub and hairdresser?”
    Charles pushed him toward the door. He was a big youth with heroic looks: a sharply planed jaw, curly brown hair, and mild blue eyes which wore a glint of amusement. “No, you silly git, curling is a sport. You take a big round flat stone, and hoik it up and slide it across a frozen lake, sweeping the ice as you go.…”
    “No, they’ve only got Tennant’s lager,” Max said, interrupting them. “Come on, I’ll choose the first one. We’ll go down to City Centre and stop in at the Skye Boatman, and make the rounds from there.” On a chorus of approval, the party turned toward the stop for the Strathclyde Underground.
    “Nine for the orange caterpillars,” Edwin shouted, letting his voice echo in the brick-walled station. They trotted down the stairs toward the trains. A man in a rumpled suit detached himself from a group at the ticket machines and followed them unobtrusively into the bowels of the station.
    The Skye Boatman was crowded and jolly, mashing its patrons into two small, smoky L-shaped rooms which surrounded the bar. The party had to shout at one another just to be heard over the clamor of the fruit machines and the canned music. Though it was early in the week, the pub was full of men and women laughing over glasses of cider or a brown-red brew which the other students told Keith was bitter ale. Keith tasted a mouthful and ordered some for himself. He was much more cautious this time with his liquor. Where the others finished one pint and ordered another, he nursed a single pint of bitter throughout the evening, and then switched to a St. Clement’s with Holl when they moved on to the next pub.
    “That’s no way to drink,” Alistair chided him, when he ordered his fifth orange-and-lemonade, “One minchy pint, and