Part 10 (2/2)

He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where he hit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pens flying. Jones looked at him.

This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag Tag Club, baronet and detrimental--and all at twenty three.

”Leave it alone, Hughie,” said Stark, going to the silver cigar box and helping himself. ”Less of that blessed cane, Hughie--why, Jollops, what ails you?”

He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him.

This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty's Black Hussars, gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed--Terrible.

Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour or the funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentals detrimentals. Jones knew his men.

”I beg your pardon,” said he, ”did you mean that name for me?”

He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what he was yelling.

This beast, who was never happy unless smas.h.i.+ng gla.s.ses, making a noise or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the s.p.a.ce of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his w.a.n.ghee cane on the table.

The noise was terrific.

The door opened and calves appeared.

”Throw that ruffian out,” said Jones.

”Out with him,” cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. ”Come on, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors.”

He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the fender.

The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his neck, gripping the collar.

Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and he was flung into the street.

The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were flung out and the door shut finally.

”If either of those guys comes here again,” said Jones to the acolyte, ”call an officer--I mean a constable.”

”Yes, my Lord.”

”I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house,”

said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. ”My G.o.d, what a mess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar b.u.mmers like those! Heu!”

He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. He was excited.

”Church,” said he. ”I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know all the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell the servants not to let them in.”

But he had another object in sending for Church. ”Where's my cheque book?” he asked.

Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer.

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