I learned from Kit, in the course of my first visit to the villa, some further particulars respecting her brother Tom, the potato-thrower of Covent Garden Market. Mr. Thomas Blake, it seemed, was the proprietor and skipper of a barge. A pleasant enough fellow when sober, but too much given to what Kit described as “his drop.” He had apparently left home under something of a cloud, though whether this had anything to do with “father’s trousers” I never knew. Kit said she had not seen him for some years, though each had known the other’s address. It seemed that the Blake family were not great correspondents. “Have you ever met John Hatton?” asked Malim one night after dinner at his flat. “John Hatton?” I answered. “No. Who is he?” “A parson. A very good fellow. You ought to know him. He’s a man with a number of widely different interests. We were at Trinity together. He jumps from one thing to another, but he’s frightfully keen about whatever he does. Someone was saying that he was running a boys’ club in the thickest part of Lambeth.” “There might be copy in it,” I said. “Or ideas for advertisements for Julian,” said Malim. “Anyway, I’ll introduce you to him. Have you ever been in the Barrel?” “What’s the Barrel?” “The Barrel is a club. It gets the name from the fact that it’s the only club in England that allows, and indeed urges, its members to sit on a barrel. John Hatton is sometimes to be found there. Come round to it tomorrow night.” “All right,” I replied. “Where is it?” “A hundred and fifty-three, York Street, Covent Garden. First floor.” “Very well,” I said. “I’ll meet you there at twelve o’clock. I can’t come sooner because I’ve got a story to write.” Twelve had just struck when I walked up York Street looking for No. 153. The house was brilliantly lighted on the first floor. The street door opened on to a staircase, and as I mounted it the sound of a piano and a singing voice reached me. At the top of the stairs I caught sight of a waiter loaded with glasses. I called to him. “Mr. Cloyster, sir? Yessir. I’ll find out whether Mr. Malim can see you, sir.” Malim came out to me. “Hatton’s not here,” he said, “but come in. There’s a smoking concert going on.” He took me into the room, the windows of which I had seen from the street. There was a burst of cheering as we entered the room. The song was finished, and there was a movement among the audience. “It’s the interval,” said Malim. Men surged out of the packed front room into the passage, and then into a sort of bar parlour. Malim and I also made our way there. “That’s the fetish of the club,” said Malim, pointing to a barrel standing on end; “and I’ll introduce you to the man who is sitting on it. He’s little Michael, the musical critic. They once put on an operetta of his at the Court. It ran about two nights, but he reckons all the events of the world from the date of its production.” “Mr. Cloyster—Mr. Michael.”