The Club of Queer Trades
ure of Basil was silhouetted against it coming out. He was roaring with laughter and talking so loudly that you could have heard every syllable across the street. Another voice, or, possibly, two voices, were laughing and talking back at him from within.
"No, no, no," Basil was calling out, with a sort of hilarious hostility. "That's quite wrong. That's the most ghastly heresy of all. It's the soul, my dear chap, the soul that's the arbiter of cosmic forces. When you see a cosmic force you don't like, trick it, my boy. But I must really be off."
"Come and pitch into us again," came the laughing voice from out of the house. "We still have some bones unbroken."
"Thanks, very much, I will—good-night," shouted Grant, who had by this time reached the street.
"Good-night," came the friendly call in reply, before the door closed.
"Basil," said Rupert Grant, in a hoarse whisper, "what are we to do?"
The elder brother looked thoughtfully from one of us to the other.
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