One of the party, by the way, answering to the name of Purkis, appeared to be the leading spirit, and made the most valuable suggestions.
“Rule 1,” dictated he, “That this club be called the Low Heathen Conversation Club.”
“Hold on,” said Trimble; “you’ve got club coming twice in the same sentence. Bad grammar.”
“Besides, I thought there was to be something about philosophy,” suggested Langrish.
“And keeping out the day cads,” said Warminster, another of the party.
“Of course, if you make the rule long enough,” said Purkis, with lofty contempt, “you can get something in it about the man in the moon.”
“But,” said I, thinking to make a little joke, just to show I had no ill-feeling, “we don’t want him in the club, do we?”
“No,” said Langrish, who had evidently been on the look-out for his chance; “no more do we want pretty Sarah’s washerwoman; do we, you chaps?”
I subsided gracefully. The time was not yet ripe, evidently, for me to assert myself.
“I tell you what,” said Warminster; “what’s the use of every one making each rule? Let old Purkis make the first, and I’ll make the second, and Langrish the third, and so on. It will be ever so much quicker, and give each chap a fair innings.”