CHAPTER VI
THE HAM-BONE CLUB
A few days later a client of ours named Powell for whom we were conducting a piece of rather intricate business concerning a mortgage of some land in Essex, invited me to join himself and his wife at dinner at the Savoy.
Our table was in a corner near the orchestra and the big restaurant was crowded. Sovrani, the famous maître d’hôtel knew all three of us well and we dined excellently under his tactful supervision. After dinner Mrs. Powell, a pretty young woman, exquisitely gowned, suggested a dance in the room below. We went there and danced until about half-past ten when Powell said:
“Let’s go to the Ham-bone.”
“The Ham-bone,” I echoed. “What on earth is that?”
“Oh!” laughed Mrs. Powell, “it is one of London’s merriest Bohemian dance clubs. The male members are all artists, sculptors or literary men, and the female members are all girls who earn their own living—mannequins, secretaries, artists’ models and girl journalists. It is screamingly amusing. Quite Bohemian and yet high select, isn’t it, Harry?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said.
“Well, one gets a really splendid dinner there for half-a-crown, though, of course, you get paper serviettes, and for supper after the hours, you men can have a kipper—a brand that is extra special—and a drink with it,” she went on.
“Yes, Leila,” laughed her husband. “The place is unique. Half the people in ‘smart’ society, men as well as women, want to become members, but the Committee, who are all well-known artists, don’t want the man-about-town: they only want the real hard-working Bohemians who go there at night for relaxation. Burlac, the sculptor, put me up.”
The novelty of the idea attracted me, so we went in a taxicab to an uninviting looking mews off Great Windmill Street, behind the Café Monico in Piccadilly Circus. Walking up it, we passed through a narrow swing-door, over which hung a dim feeble light and a big ham-bone!