The behaviour of these two young gentlemen was giving the club some uneasiness. They were not alive to their duties as “Sociables.” And they had got into the abominable habit of obeying monitors and associating with questionable characters, such as Richardson, Aspinall, and the like.
A motion had just been passed calling upon the two delinquents to appear at the next meeting and answer for their conduct, when the door opened and Freckleton entered.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he. “I’m not sure if I’m a member, but I hope I don’t intrude.”
The “Sociables” stared at him, half in anger, half in bewilderment, as he helped himself to a chair and sat down with his back to the door.
“The fact is,” said he with a weary look, “I’ve lived such a retired life here, I hardly know where to find fellows I want. I’ve been hunting high and low for half a dozen fellows with brains in their heads, and someone told me if I came here I should find plenty.”
There was a titter not unmingled with a few frowns, as the Hermit spread himself comfortably on his chair and looked round him.
“It’s as hard to find a fellow with brains nowadays as it was for Diogenes to find an honest man, once. You know who Diogenes was, don’t you, Gossy?” added he, turning suddenly on that young bravo.
Gosse blushed crimson at finding himself so unexpectedly singled out; and faltered out that he had forgotten.
“Forgotten?” said Freckleton, joining in the general laugh at Gosse’s expense; “and you knew so well once! Ask Bull; he knows; he’s in the Sixth, and very clever. Why, Bull (I hope he’s not present)—”
Another laugh. For Bull sat in his place the size of life, with his bloated face almost as red as Gosse’s.