and provide members with a route-map of the way from Fleet Street," answered Spargo, taking his glass. "Phew!—what an atmosphere!"
"We're considering a ventilating-fan," said Starkey. "I'm on the house committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the Bulletin—you know Templeson—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard—says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap—second-hand dealer, don't you know—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see"
"There is Crowfoot," said Spargo. "Shout him over here, Starkey, before anybody else collars him."
Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye.
"Hi, Crowfoot!" shouted Starkey above the din and
