y and indubitably the most
courageous thing I have ever seen or read of."

His cultured lisping speech and his well-bred air interested Jim. Here was
one of the upper ten thousand, the real flower of British aristocracy.
Jim's eyes traveled over him, noting the cut of his clothes and his
general air of careless lassitude. It had taken ten generations to produce
that finished article, and the man from the "Wilds" wondered what was the
real nature of the animal. Physically he was a degenerate. His hands were
long and tapered, and his limbs were exceeding small. But he possessed
grace of movement. Jim felt a sneaking admiration for the hundred-and-one
little tricks of movement that characterized the Immaculate One. But was
it only veneer? Were these polished externals without inward counterpart?
In the meantime the Immaculate One had taken stock of his saviour. He
found much to admire in this amazing giant, with swells of muscle outlined
behind the cloth that covered it. No man of his set could have done what
this man had done. Sensitiveness, Culture, seemed to negate spontaneity of
action. Reason had usurped the throne of Will. Colorado Jim only reasoned
in his immature fashion. He acted without reason, on the impulse of the
moment. Impulse had its advantages. Had he stopped to reason, the
Immaculate One would have soon been the object of a Coroner's jury. Jim
found the slim white hand extended towards him. He shook it.

"I should--ah--like to know to whom I am indebted?"

"Jim Conlan, but it don't matter a cuss."

"It matters a great deal--to me. I should like to give you my card."

He produced a gold card-case and extracted a thin piece of paste-board.
Jim scanned it: _Alfred Cholmondeley, Huntingdon Club_.

"I gather you are not the sort of fellah who loves a torrent of oral
thanks," drawled Cholmondeley; "but if at any time I can be of the
slightest service to you, you have only to command me."

It was then that an inspiration came to Jim. He scanned the card again.

"Say, you mean that?"

"Try me."

"Wal, if you'd like to balance the account good and proper, git me into
this yere club."

Cholmondeley stared, and coughed.

"It's--ah--it's a deuced expensive club."

Jim's face relaxed.

"I guess I can stand the pace."

Cholmondeley was at his wits' end. Of all the impossible things on earth
Jim had asked the most impossible. The Huntingdon was the doyen of London
clubs; its titled members could have f