With the passing of the flagons an electric current of good fellowship flashed around the circle.  Stories that would have been received with but a bare smile at the club were here greeted with shouts of laughter.  Bon-mots, skits, puns and squibs mouldy with age or threadbare with use, were told with a new gusto and welcomed with delight.

Suddenly, and without any apparent reason, these burst forth a roar like that of a great orchestra with every instrument played at its loudest—­rounds of applause from kettle-drums, trombones and big horns; screams of laughter from piccolos, clarionettes and flutes, buzzings of subdued talk by groups of bass viols and the lesser strings, the whole broken by the ringing notes of a song that soared for an instant clear of the din, only to be overtaken and drowned in the mighty shout of approval.  This was followed by a stampede from the table; the banners were caught up with a mighty shout and carried around the room; Morris, boy for the moment, springing to his feet and joining in the uproar.

The only guest who kept his chair, except Peter and myself, was a young fellow two seats away, whose eyes, brilliant with excitement, followed the merrymaking, but who seemed too much abashed, or too ill at ease, to join in the fun.  I had noticed how quiet he was and wondered at the cause.  Peter had also been watching the boy and had said to me that he had a good face and was evidently from out of town.

“Why don’t you get up?” Peter called to him at last.  “Up with you, my lad.  This is one of the times when every one of you young fellows should be on your feet.”  He would have grabbed a banner himself had any one given him the slightest encouragement.

“I would, sir, but I’m out of it,” said the young man with a deferential bow, moving to the empty seat next to Peter.  He too had been glancing at Peter from time to time.

“Aren’t you with Mr. Morris?”

“No, I wish I were.  I came with my friend, Garry Minott, that young fellow carrying the banner with ‘Corn Exchange’ marked on it.”

“And may I ask, then, what you do?” continued Peter.

The young fellow looked into the older man’s kindly eyes—­ something in their expression implied a wish to draw him the closer—­and said quite simply:  “I don’t do anything that is of any use, sir.  Garry says that I might as well work in a faro bank.”

Peter leaned forward.  For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as he scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his well-knit, well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his scalp, cleanly modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth—­ especially the mobile lips which seemed quivering from some suppressed emotion—­all telling of a boy delicately nurtured.

“And do you really work in a faro bank?” Peter’s knowledge of human nature had failed him for once.

“Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry’s jokes.  I’m clerk in a stock broker’s office on Wall Street.  Arthur Breen & Company.  My uncle is head of the firm.”