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There were rows going on all the
time--insignificant rows, mostly about newspapers and gambling debts.
Mr. Samuel got his eye blacked over a harmless game of ecarte; Mr.
White, one of the steadiest members, threatened to withdraw his
subscription on account of the black-beetles; a Swedish sea-captain
smashed nine panes of glass--just by way of a friendly demonstration, he
said--because the great Upsala journal, the UTAN STAFVEL, was missing
from its shelf; a muscular Japanese made himself distinctly offensive
about the NICHI-NICHI-SHIN-BUM being out of date, and was going to
twist everybody's head off, if it occurred again; the excellent
Vice-President, Mr. Richards, tumbled noisily downstairs, nobody knew
how or why--all on a single afternoon. The sirocco happened to be
particularly trying that day.
On the whole, there was no denying the fact that the Club flourished
under the statesman-like autocracy of Mr. Parker. That was partly
because, unlike previous presidents, he was generally on the spot.


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