'I like to hear a man speak as if he
meant it.'
John looked up with a leaden, rheumy eye, but the compliment pleased
him, and in a moment he smiled vacantly.
'I haven't said my last word yet,' he replied, with difficulty
making himself audible through his hoarseness.
'It takes it out of you, I'm afraid. Suppose we have a drop of
something at the corner here?'
'I don't mind, Mr. Snowdon. I thought of looking in at my club for a
quarter of an hour; perhaps you'd come round with me afterwards?'
They drank at the public-house, then Hewett led the way by back
streets to the quarters of the club of which he had been for many
years a member. The locality was not cheerful, and the house itself
stood in much need of repair. As they entered, John requested his
companion to sign his name in the visitors' book; Mr. Snowdon did so
with a flourish. They ascended to the first floor and passed into a
room where little could be seen but the gas-jets, and those dimly,
owing to the fume of pipes. The rattle of bones, the strumming of a
banjo, and a voice raised at intervals in a kind of whoop announced
that a nigger entertainment was in progress.
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