It was rather early for the “Hawks,” and only a few of them had fluttered in. It was about the last club that such a man as Jack should have been a member of. It was fast, it was expensive, it was fashionable, and the chief reason for its existence lay in the fact that play at any time, and to any extent, could be obtained there.
When Jack entered the cardroom, that apartment was almost empty, but the suspicious-looking tables were surrounded by chairs stuck up on two legs, denoting that they were engaged, and those men who were present were all playing.
Every head was turned as he entered, and a buzz of greeting rose to welcome him.
“Halloa; you back, Jack!” said a tall, military-looking man, who was known as the “Indian Nut,” because he was one of the most famous of our Indian colonels. “You’re just in time to take a hand at loo.”
“No; come and join us,” said young Lord Pierrepoint, from another table, at which nap was being played.
But if you could only wring a promise out of Jack, you could rest perfectly certain that he would keep it; and he shook his head firmly.
“Nary a card.”
“What! Don’t you feel well, Jack?”
“No, I’m hungry. I’m going to get something to eat.”
“Dear me, I didn’t know you did eat, Jack. However, man, come and sit down, and don’t fidget about the room like that.”