At some future day, perhaps, I may tell
tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will
recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that
superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will
explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of
which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall
know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the
Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a
word. The first of my revelations, at any rate, shall be concerned
with the Club of Queer Trades, which, as I have said, was one of
this class, one which I was almost bound to come across sooner or
later, because of my singular hobby. The wild youth of the
metropolis call me facetiously `The King of Clubs'. They also call
me `The Cherub', in allusion to the roseate and youthful
appearance I have presented in my declining years. I only hope the
spirits in the better world have as good dinners as I have. But
the finding of the Club of Queer Trades has one very curious thing
about it. The most curious thing about it is that it was not
discovered by me; it was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a
star-gazer, a mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his
attic.
Very few people knew anything of Basil; not because he was in the
least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked into
his rooms he would have kept him talking till morning.
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