THE LATEST DECISION.
There was a black-edged card on the bulletin board. That means a vacancy in the club membership until some one of the waiting-list steps into the dead man’s shoes.
The card bore the inscription:
JOHN FURMAN DELAFIELD.
December 30, 1898.
Jack Delafield had been no chum of mine, but I never thought the Governors did right by him, and I was glad to remember my partisanship in the days when his mere name was sufficient to provoke instant debate among the Thespians. I liked him then for some of the enemies he made, and perhaps my enthusiasm was always more for the cause than the man. However, I was sorry—very sorry, to see his name on that card, and I said as much to the group of men among whom I took my accustomed seat in the club corner.
“Well, I’m sorry he’s gone, but I never knew him at all,” remarked Chandler.
“I never met him either,” said Paddock.