few papers
were kept for respectability's sake, and others for use, was the daily
haunt of some of the choicest spirits. In the early days of the club's
history, to be sure, a thoughtless governor had inspired the foundation
of a library. A room upstairs somewhere (few of the members knew where)
was selected, and into this were placed a set of Dickens, the
"Britannica," an atlas, a history or two, a dictionary, and perhaps a
hundred other books, which together formed the nucleus of a store of
knowledge. But no one went there except Simkins, Rynder and McLaughlin.
They were a queer lot; none of the men could make them out; it was their
families that got them elected, and they never seemed to have anything
better to do than cuddle over musty books. But the choice clique were
those whose names were most often signed to the wine-room tickets. It
was they who ran the club and made it the popular place it was.

On a particular January afternoon, of a year not long since passed, one
of the broad, front windows of the lounging room was occupied by three
intimates of "the set." There was Rennsler Van Vort, whose ancestor had
been a red-faced burgher at the time when old Peter Stuyvesant
rigorously ruled New Amsterdam. His fortune was his name, for the family
was too old to be wealthy and too proud to be in trade; yet he never
lacked a berth on a yacht or a room in a country house, and wherever he
went, he brought a collection of rare tales and a song or two which made
him the friend of all. Like his burgher ancestor he had a red, round
face and was bald, but behind his glasses there were two queer, little
eyes which shone with kindly humor, and from lips half hidden by stubby
black hairs, bright, timely words were sure to come. Rennsler was the
senior by several years of his companions, and, if the truth were known,
he probably cared little for them, but Roland Waterman owned the
"Phrygia," and Clifford Howard-Jones was a coaching man with a shooting
box and other convenient accessories.

It had been snowing in the morning, but the sun had turned the snow to
slush, and the three men, for lack of more exciting sport, were
watching the omnibus horses slide and struggle down Murray Hill, and the
pedestrians splash and spatter in their vain efforts to dodge the cabs
and reach the curbs with unsoiled feet. If the unfortunate wayfarer
happened to be a woman, and a pretty one at that, the three friends
would smirk and nudge each other