g of roughs, the lifting of a paving stone, the
finding of a cellar, the finding of a cellar below the cellar, the
finding of the subterranean passage, the finding of the Club of Queer
Trades.

I have had many strange experiences in my life, but never a stranger
one than that I felt when I came out of those rambling, sightless, and
seemingly hopeless passages into the sudden splendour of a sumptuous and
hospitable dining-room, surrounded upon almost every side by faces
that I knew. There was Mr Montmorency, the Arboreal House-Agent, seated
between the two brisk young men who were occasionally vicars, and always
Professional Detainers. There was Mr P. G. Northover, founder of the
Adventure and Romance Agency. There was Professor Chadd, who invented
the dancing Language.

As we entered, all the members seemed to sink suddenly into their
chairs, and with the very action the vacancy of the presidential seat
gaped at us like a missing tooth.

"The president's not here," said Mr P. G. Northover, turning suddenly to
Professor Chadd.

"N--no," said the philosopher, with more than his ordinary vagueness. "I
can't imagine where he is."

"Good heavens," said Mr Montmorency, jumping up, "I really feel a little
nervous. I'll go and see." And he ran out of the room.

An instant after he ran back again, twittering with a timid ecstasy.

"He's there, gentlemen--he's there all right--he's coming in now,"
he cried, and sat down. Rupert and I could hardly help feeling the
beginnings of a sort of wonder as to who this person might be who
was the first member of this insane brotherhood. Who, we thought
indistinctly, could be maddest in this world of madmen: what fantastic
was it whose shadow filled all these fantastics with so loyal an
expectation?

Suddenly we were answered. The door flew open and the room was filled
and shaken with a shout, in the midst of which Basil Grant, smiling and
in evening dress, took his seat at the head of the table.

How we ate that dinner I have no idea. In the common way I am a person
particularly prone to enjoy the long luxuriance of the club dinner. But
on this occasion it seemed a hopeless and endless string of courses.
Hors-d'oeuvre sardines seemed as big as herrings, soup seemed a sort
of ocean, larks were ducks, ducks were ostriches until that dinner was
over. The cheese course was maddening. I had often heard of the moon
being made of green cheese. That night I thought the green cheese was