But the prettiest label in the world could
not stone for the mixture within. Members often complained of feeling
queer. They threatened to resign. Mr. Parker did not want them to
resign; he wanted their subscriptions. He had a grand way with him on
such occasions. Whenever one of them complained too bitterly or too
persistently--became damned abusive, in fact--he would patiently wait and
see which was the fellow's favourite newspaper. That point settled--it
was his lady's idea, originally--he would stop the supply of the journal
in question, alleging insufficiency of Club revenues. These
Napoleon-like tactics generally brought the offending member to his
senses.
Mr. Frederick Parker spent a good deal of his time in endeavouring to
mask, under a cloak of boisterous good humour, a really remarkable
combination of malevolence and imbecility. He was what you call a
remittance man. He got so much a quarter--a miserable sum it was--to keep
out of England. He travelled about formerly. But no amount of travel,
no association with his betters, could pierce his stolid pachydermatous
obliquity.
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