he 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.

"Bull actually found the Sixth so dull and unintellectual that he left
us, in order to cultivate the acquaintance of Culver, and fellows of
culture and scholarship like him. It was a great loss to us. We've
hardly had an idea in the Sixth since Bull left."

This double hit greatly delighted the majority of the "Sociables;"
scarcely less so than Bull's red cheeks, and the gape with which Culver
received the reference to himself.

"You're not wanted here," Bull exclaimed; "get out!"

"There! Isn't that clever?" said the Hermit, in apparent admiration.
"Did ever you hear a sentence so well put together, and so eloquently
delivered. Why, not even the 'too-too' Wrangham (I hope Wrangham's not
here)--"

Blushing was the order of the day. Wrangham tried hard to look
unconcerned, but as the eyes of the Club turned round in his direction,
the tell-tale roses came on his cadaverous cheeks and mounted to his
forehead.

"The 'too-too' Wrangham, who loves lilies because they are pure, and
calls teapots 'consummate' because--well, I don't exactly know why--he
couldn't have put his one idea so neatly--"

"Look here, Freckleton," said