Down the steps of the verandah towards Sir John came Mr Bassett and Dr Soames Pryce. Mr Bassett was a very short man. His face was ape-like and had a fringe beard of sandy grey. He was overshadowed by an immense Terai felt hat, and was a quaint figure until you got used to him. He occupied the honorary position of secretary to the Exiles’ Club. Dr Soames Pryce was a man of medium height and magnificent figure—a chest deep and broad, small waist and hips, powerful muscles, and no spare flesh. He was clean-shaven, and his ugly, strong face suggested a cynical Napoleon. He wore a shirt and trousers of white flannel and a pith helmet.
“My lizard won, Sweetling,” he said, as he sank into one of the lounge chairs.
“So Thomas has been telling me,” said Sir John, reflectively. “Wish I’d backed it.”
“Tell you what, Bassett,” said the doctor, sharply. “You were grumbling—said you’d never seen your browny run so badly. I’ll back my green one against him once more for another sovereign—run it off to-morrow morning.”
“Can’t,” said Bassett. “Killed mine—always kill losers.” His manner was jerky and nervous. He was already turning over the volumes on the table. “We have business of some importance to the club before us this morning—the election of—”
He stopped short as a native waiter approached with a tray. The doctor apparently shared the taste of Sir John in morning beverages; Mr Bassett drank iced barley-water with a slice of lemon in it.
“Yes, yes,” said Sir John as the waiter retired. “Mr Bassett is right; business of very serious importance. We must be getting on. I will ask Mr Bassett to read the minutes of the last meeting.”
Mr Bassett jerked rapidly through the data of the meeting and the names of the committee-men who attended. In addition to the names of those now present the name of the Rev. Cyril Mast was read.
Dr Soames Pryce took his mouth away from a drinking-straw to observe, “Mast not coming to-day?”
“I shall have something to say presently as to that,” said Sir John.