With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in the week to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and the lounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dice for the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were made up for the afternoon. A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from the locker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hair was red--the sort of red that will not be ignored--and he wore it combed straight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular features were covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was a volunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become a moustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new, his shoes were new--from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness. Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amount of reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burst through the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was a broad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that he expected to find himself among friends. "Who wants a game?" he cried. "Don't all speak at once, men!" A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youth curiously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heard him at all. Harson and Billford looked at me. "Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford. "That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps." "Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a failure. What's he want?" Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table. "You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's shoulder. Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth; so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand. "'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean--just washed it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar. "No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?" "We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding. "Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And Ambrose passed on to the next table. "Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford. "Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being too bashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!"