An uproar had been generated at the Club; chairs were broken, bottles smashed, and sporting prints kicked about—­all on account of a comical but rather scurrilous speech contrasting Europe with Australasia by a new-comer, a member of the New Zealand House of Representatives, who limped home not long afterwards with a damaged shinbone and black eye.  The more violent parties had been ejected during that incident, or carried to their lodgings.  Only about half the usual number was left—­all moderates, so far as drinking was concerned, but all more or less screwed that day as befitted the occasion.  There was the card-table group, where Mr. Muhlen, with heightened colour in his cheeks, was losing money in so brilliant a fashion that everyone swore he must be on the verge of coming into a legacy or making some Coup with a rich woman.  In another room the so-called bawdy section, presided over by the dubious Mr. Hopkins, were discussing topics not adapted to polite ears.  The artistic group, sadly thinned by the ejection of four of its more imaginative and virile members who had distinguished themselves in the fray, now consisted solely of two youngsters, a black-and-white man and a literary critic; they sat in a corner by themselves, talking about colour-values in maudlin strains.

The ordinary club-group had, as usual, installed themselves in the most comfortable chairs on the balcony.  They were boozing steadily, like gentlemen, and having no end of fun with the poor little Norwegian professor and his miscalculations.  One of them—­a venerable toper of Anacreontic youthfulness known as Charlie who turned up on Nepenthe at odd intervals and whom the oldest inhabitant of the place had never seen otherwise than in a state of benevolent fuddle—­was saying to him: 

“Instead of filling yourself up with whisky in that disgusting fashion, my friend, you ought to travel.  Then you wouldn’t make such an exhibition of yourself as you did this afternoon over those ashes.  Talk about volcanoes!  Ever seen the Lake of Pitch in Trinidad?  Queer place, Trinidad.  You never know where you are.  Though I can’t say I saw much of it myself.  I was asleep most of the time, gentlemen, and often tight.  Mostly both.  All angles and things, as you sail along.  To get an idea of that place, you must take a banana, for instance, and cut it in half, and cut that in half again, and that half in half again—­the banana, mind you, must always remain the same size—­or suppose you keep peeling a potato, and peeling, and peeling—­well, Mr. Professor, what are you laughing at now?”

“I was thinking what an interesting map one could draw of Trinidad if it’s like that.”

“Interesting?  That’s not the word.  It’s Hell.  I wouldn’t care to take on that job, not even to oblige my poor old mother who died fifty years ago.  Ever been to Trinidad, Mr. Richards?  Or you, Mr. White?  Or anybody?  What, has nobody been to Trinidad?  You ought to travel more, gentlemen.  How about you, Mr. Samuel?”