The writer of this work was taken there from his club some years ago, between one and two on Sunday morning, by one of the most renowned of London theatrical managers, in company with an actor of celebrity.
The place was not interfered with for years, the reason being that it was patronised by many of the upper ten thousand. The Jew who conducted it carried on the concern, small as it was, sufficiently long to amass a large fortune.
He was unmolested by the police authorities, and, although he had no spirit licence, he contrived to serve brandy and other liquors in the guise of cups of tea and coffee.
It has been with truth often said that “one man may steal a horse, while a less favoured one must not look over the hedge.”
While Peace and his companion were seated at one of the tables, taking stock of the company, a private soldier suddenly entered the sacred precincts of this hallowed establishment.
The porter told him to leave—that he could not be served with anything.
The soldier was “half seas over,” and, striking a defiant attitude, declared his money was as good as anybody else’s, and that he would be served.
The landlord came from behind the bar, and informed this valiant son of Mars that he was in a club-house, and none but members could be served.
This did not satisfy the soldier, who was disposed to be troublesome, for he was too powerful a man to be forcibly ejected, and of course everyone present dreaded a row.
A tall gentlemanly-looking man with the greatest composure rose from one of the tables, and, walking up to the side of the soldier, whispered something in his ear.