“Who ’s that fellow with the game leg—­I’m always seeing him about?” asked the racing man.

And Shelton saw a sallow man, conspicuous for a want of parting in his hair and a certain restlessness of attitude.

“His name is Bayes,” said Stroud; “spends half his time among the Chinese—­must have a grudge against them!  And now he ’s got his leg he can’t go there any more.”

“Chinese?  What does he do to them?”

“Bibles or guns.  Don’t ask me!  An adventurer.”

“Looks a bit of a bounder,” said the racing man.

Shelton gazed at the twitching eyebrows of old Stroud; he saw at once how it must annoy a man who had a billet in the “Woods and Forests,” and plenty of time for “bridge” and gossip at his club, to see these people with untidy lives.  A minute later the man with the “game leg” passed close behind his chair, and Shelton perceived at once how intelligible the resentment of his fellow-members was.  He had eyes which, not uncommon in this country, looked like fires behind steel bars; he seemed the very kind of man to do all sorts of things that were “bad form,” a man who might even go as far as chivalry.  He looked straight at Shelton, and his uncompromising glance gave an impression of fierce loneliness; altogether, an improper person to belong to such a club.  Shelton remembered the words of an old friend of his father’s:  “Yes, Dick, all sorts of fellows belong here, and they come here for all sorts o’ reasons, and a lot of em come because they’ve nowhere else to go, poor beggars”; and, glancing from the man with the “game leg” to Stroud, it occurred to Shelton that even he, old Stroud, might be one of these poor beggars.  One never knew!  A look at Benjy, contained and cheery, restored him.  Ah, the lucky devil!  He would not have to come here any more! and the thought of the last evening he himself would be spending before long flooded his mind with a sweetness that was almost pain.

“Benjy, I’ll play you a hundred up!” said young Bill Dennant.

Stroud and the racing man went to watch the game; Shelton was left once more to reverie.

“Good form!” thought he; “that fellow must be made of steel.  They’ll go on somewhere; stick about half the night playing poker, or some such foolery.”

He crossed over to the window.  Rain had begun to fall; the streets looked wild and draughty.  The cabmen were putting on their coats.  Two women scurried by, huddled under one umbrella, and a thin-clothed, dogged-looking scarecrow lounged past with a surly, desperate step.  Shelton, returning to his chair, threaded his way amongst his fellow-members.  A procession of old school and college friends came up before his eyes.  After all, what had there been in his own education, or theirs, to give them any other standard than this “good form”?  What had there been to teach them anything of life?  Their imbecility was incredible when you came to