"Don't be a fool, Jack. You are hot and upset. Keep away from the club tonight. Well, well--let the _ecarte_ alone, at any rate." "All right, I'll promise you that. I won't touch a card tonight. _Ecarte!_ I couldn't play beggar-my-neighbor tonight! Len, I wish you were a bigger man; I'd get up a row, and have a turn-to with you. Sit down here! I couldn't do it. I want to be doing something--something desperate. You can sit here and dream over your complaint; I can't--I should go mad! Don't sit up for me." Leonard looked after him as he disappeared into one of the two bedrooms which adjoined the common sitting-room, and, with a shake of his head, muttered, "Poor Jack!" and returned to his work. Jack took a cold bath, dressed himself, and merely pausing to shout a good-night, as he passed down the stairs, went into the street, and jumped into a hansom, telling the man to drive to the Hawks' Club. It was rather early for the "Hawks," and only a few of them had fluttered in. It was about the last club that such a man as Jack should have been a member of. It was fast, it was expensive, it was fashionable, and the chief reason for its existence lay in the fact that play at any time, and to any extent, could be obtained there. When Jack entered the cardroom, that apartment was almost empty, but the suspicious-looking tables were surrounded by chairs stuck up on two legs, denoting that they were engaged, and those men who were present were all playing. Every head was turned as he entered, and a buzz of greeting rose to welcome him. "Halloa; you back, Jack!" said a tall, military-looking man, who was known as the "Indian Nut," because he was one of the most famous of our Indian colonels. "You're just in time to take a hand at loo." "No; come and join us," said young Lord Pierrepoint, from another table, at which nap was being played. But if you could only wring a promise out of Jack, you could rest perfectly certain that he would keep it; and he shook his head firmly. "Nary a card." "What! Don't you feel well, Jack?" "No, I'm hungry. I'm going to get something to eat." "Dear me, I didn't know you did eat, Jack. However, man, come and sit down, and don't fidget about the room like that." "Len's right, the club won't do neither. I couldn't hold a card straight tonight. I'll get some dinner, and go back, and we'll have it all over again." It was a wise and virtuous resolution; and, unlike most resolves, Jack meant to keep it. But alas! before he had got through with his soup, the door opened and two men strolled in. They were both young and well-known. The one was Sir Arkroyd Hetley; the other, the young Lord Dalrymple, whose coronet had scarcely yet warmed his forehead, as the French say. Both of them uttered an exclamation at seeing Jack, and made straight for his table. "Why, here's the Savage!" exclaimed Dalrymple. "Back to his native forest primeval."