“Jim Conlan, but it don’t matter a cuss.”
“It matters a great deal—to me. I should like to give you my card.”
He produced a gold card-case and extracted a thin piece of paste-board. Jim scanned it: Alfred Cholmondeley, Huntingdon Club.
“I gather you are not the sort of fellah who loves a torrent of oral thanks,” drawled Cholmondeley; “but if at any time I can be of the slightest service to you, you have only to command me.”
It was then that an inspiration came to Jim. He scanned the card again.
“Say, you mean that?”
“Try me.”
“Wal, if you’d like to balance the account good and proper, git me into this yere club.”
Cholmondeley stared, and coughed.
“It’s—ah—it’s a deuced expensive club.”