Some
great man once made a remark about the need of "the Master's Eye." He
believed in that remark. If you run a place, run it yourself. He was
ever-present, absorbing at ogher people's expense his own poison, to
the effects of which he seemed to be immune; and borrowing money, on
the sly, from the richer and more forgetful members. His uproarious
joviality, his echoing ha! ha! became a feature of the place; it
deceived the simple, and amused the complex. He was ready to talk about
anything with anybody who shoved along; he had a fund of naughty
tropical stories for the so-called bawdy section, and could be as
sympathetic and pious as you please with a contrite youngster suffering
from last night's debauch.
"A hair of the dog," he would suggest with a genial wink, pushing the
bottle temptingly nearer.
The regulations had also been improved under his auspices. The entrance
fee was imperceptibly raised, while the conditions of entry were
relaxed. It was his lady's idea originally. She made it clear that the
more numerous the members the greater the quantity of whisky
consumed--the greater, therefore, their profits; quite apart from the
possibility of additional subscriptions being paid.
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