"No."
"Because we've been counting you fellows in with us. We've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "I think you'll find the crowd congenial."
"When do you start in?" said Stover.
"To-morrow. Are you with us?"
"Glad to come."
"Bully!" He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "I say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. It'll queer you quicker than anything else. You don't mind my giving you a tip?"
"Not at all," said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics.
"Ta-ta, then—perfectly bully you're with us. I'm off on this infernal News game—half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night—lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?"
He sped on, and they went up to the rooms.
"I thought we'd better change," said Stover.