The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the
Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and
Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate
you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways.
You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as
if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls.
Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a
small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer's ink in
your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made
another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper,
crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a
few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past
various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After
a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and
found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself
in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted--the whole and sole
work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of
lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you
saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal
legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you
were a member you went in, and if you weren't a member you tinkled an
electric bell and asked to see a member--if you knew one.

Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the
bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a
young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly
hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course
and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled.

"Had we known you were coming," said Mr. Starkey, "we'd have had a
brass band on the stairs."

"I want to come in," remarked Spargo.

"Sure!" said Mr. Starkey. "That's what you've come for."

"Well, stand out of the way, then, and let's get in," said Spargo.
"Look here," he continued when they had penetrated into a small
vestibule, "doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every
night?"

"Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his
nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily
column wherein he informs a section of the p