“Is that the Leviathan up there?” said one of the members, pointing toward a gray hull on the Hoboken horizon.  No one knew, but the secretary was reminded of an adventure during the war.  “One time I was crossing on this ferry,” he said, “and the Leviathan passed right by us.  It was just at dusk and her camouflage was wonderful.  Her blotches and stripes were so arranged that from a little distance, in the twilight, she gave the impression of a much smaller vessel, going the other way.  All her upper works seemed to fade out in the haze and she became a much smaller ship.”  “That would be a wonderful plan for some of these copious dowagers one sees,” said the irreverent Lawton.  “Yes,” we said; “instead of a stout lady going in to dinner, you would see a slim flapper coming out.”

Something was then said about a good friend of the club who had at one time worked for the Y.M.C.A.  “What is he doing now?” asked one.  “He’s with Grace and Company,” said the secretary.  The candidate was unabashed.  “Think,” he said, “of a Y.M.C.A. man getting grace at last.”

The club found the Jersey City terminal much as usual, and to our surprise the candidate kept up his courage nobly as he was steered toward the place of penance, being the station lunch counter.  The club remembered this as a place of excellent food in days gone by, when trains from Philadelphia stopped here instead of at the Penn.  Station.  Placing the host carefully in the middle, the three sat down at the curving marble slab.  The waiters immediately sensed that something unusual was toward.  Two dashed up with courteous attentions.  It was surmised by the club that the trio had happened to sit at a spot where the jurisdictions of two waiters met.  Both the wings of the trio waved the waiters toward the blushing novice, making it plain that upon him lay all responsibility.  “It is obvious,” remarked the secretary, “that you, Lawton, are right on the boundary line where two waiters meet.  You will have to tip them both.”

The new member was game.  “Well,” he said, without a trace of nervousness; “what’ll you have?” The choice fell upon breast of lamb.  The secretary asked for iced tea.  Endymion, more ruthless, ordered ginger ale.  When the ginger ale came, Lawton, still waggish, observed the label, which was one of the many imitations of a well-known brand.  “The man who invented the diamond-shaped label,” said Lawton, “was certainly a pathfinder in the wilderness of the ginger ale business.  This ginger ale,” said Lawton, tasting it, “is carefully warmed, like old claret.”

The club sought to keep their host’s mind off the painful topic of viands.  “Sitting here makes one feel as though he ought to be going to take a train somewhere,” said one.  “Yes, the express for Weehawken,” said the vivacious host.  From this it was only a step to speaking of Brooklyn.  The secretary explained that the club had outlined a careful itinerary in that borough for proximate pursuit.  Lawton told that he had at one time written an essay on the effect of Brooklyn on the dialogue of the American drama.  “It is the butt end of Long Island,” he cried, with cruel mirth.  Lovers of Brooklyn in the club nearly blackballed him for this.