port almost as much as they loved a lord.
They never regretted their generous concession in this instance, for
during the three years of his membership, it was the Glengarry Macdonald
that had brought glory to their club more than any half dozen of their
other champions. In their finals with the Montrealers two years ago,
it was he, the prince of all Canadian half-backs, as every one
acknowledged, who had snatched victory from the exultant enemy in the
last quarter of an hour. Then, too, they had never ceased to be grateful
for the way in which he had delivered the name of their club from
the reproach cast upon it by the challenge long flaunted before their
aristocratic noses by the cads of the Athletic, when he knocked out in
a bout with the gloves, the chosen representative of that ill-favored
club--a professional, too, by Jove, as it leaked out later.

True, there were those who thought him too particular, and undoubtedly
he had peculiar ideas. He never drank, never played for money, and he
never had occasion to use words in the presence of men that would be
impossible before their mothers and sisters; and there was a quaint,
old-time chivalry about him that made him a friend of the weak and
helpless, and the champion of women, not only of those whose sheltered
lives had kept them fair and pure, but of those others as well, sad-eyed
and soul-stained, the cruel sport of lustful men. For his open scorn of
their callous lust some hated him, but all with true men's hearts loved
him.

The club-rooms were filling up; the various games were in full swing.

"Hello, little Merrill!" Young Merrill looked up from his billiards.

"Glengarry, by all the gods!" throwing down his cue, and rushing at
Ranald. "Where in this lonely universe have you been these many months,
and how are you, old chap?" Merrill was excited.

"All right, Merrill?" inquired the deep voice.

"Right, so help me--" exclaimed Merrill, solemnly, lifting up his hand.
"He's inquiring after my morals," he explained to the men who were
crowding about; "and I don't give a blank blank who knows it," continued
little Merrill, warmly, "my present magnificent manhood," smiting
himself on the breast, "I owe to that same dear old solemnity there,"
pointing to Ranald.

"Shut up, Merrill, or I'll spank you," said Ranald.

"You will, eh?" cried Merrill, looking at him. "Look at him vaunting his
beastly fitness over the frail and weak. I say, men, did you ever behold