There Would
Be A Loud Peal Of Laughter, Then An Interval, Then Another Peal; As If
A Prime Wag Were Telling A Story.
After a little while there was a
song, and at the close of each stanza a hearty roar and a vehement
thumping on the table.
"This is the place," whispered Buckthorne. "It is the 'Club of Queer
Fellows.' A great resort of the small wits, third-rate actors, and
newspaper critics of the theatres. Any one can go in on paying a
shilling at the bar for the use of the club."
We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our seats at a lone
table in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round a
table, on which stood beverages of various kinds, according to the
taste of the individual. The members were a set of queer fellows
indeed; but what was my surprise on recognizing in the prime wit of the
meeting the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the booksellers'
dinner for his promising face and his complete taciturnity. Matters,
however, were entirely changed with him. There he was a mere cypher:
here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominant
genius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye
beaming even more luminously than his nose. He had a quiz and a fillip
for every one, and a good thing on every occasion. Nothing could be
said or done without eliciting a spark from him; and I solemnly declare
I have heard much worse wit even from noblemen.
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