Although it rained, _Much Ado_ had only four readers at the opening and only two at the close. Lance sent postcards that night to the members announcing _Hamlet_ for the morrow. He wanted to read Hamlet’s part, but if you can’t have _Hamlet_ without the Prince, neither can you read it satisfactorily with one other participant. Lance and Sam struggled through an act, then Lance gave in. “I’m getting tired of this Club,” he said. “The members have no brain.” “It isn’t raining,” said Sam. “No. Lancashire’s batting, too. Let’s go and see Albert Ward and Frank Sugg at Old Tafford.” Next day, the Club was uninhabited, except by the ghost of Sam’s broadest smile, its only tenant for a week. The freeze-out was accomplished, and its engineer had confidence enough to spend three pounds of his capital on a bed and bedding, “to await instructions before delivering.” Then he saw Lance Travers and pointed out to him that there were better uses to be made of ninepence a week than to waste it on a club which nobody used. “Nuisance, though, about the chairs and stuff,” said Lance, implying his agreement that the Club had failed. “I can’t have them back here, because I’m turning our attic into an aviary. That’s why I’ve had no time to go to the Club,” he explained with a faint apology, and took Sam up to see his birds. “What shall we do about all that furniture at the Club? Pity the fifth of November is so far off.” “I’ll try to think of something,” said Sam, rather terrified at Lance’s incendiary suggestion. “In any case it must be discussed at a full meeting. Let’s call the members together.” An urgent whip resulted in a full and slightly shame-faced attendance. Nobody tried to dispute that the Club was a corpse: the only question was what to do with its bones. “Well,” said Sam, “if none of you has a suggestion to make, I’ll make one. Nobody’s aching to take the stuff back where it came from. Now,” he went on candidly, “we _could_ sell it to a dealer, but I’m against that because dealers are thieves and they’d give us about thirty bob for the lot. But my sister’s getting married and I don’t mind offering the Club five pounds for its property. That,” he indicated, “is a pound each for the five of you.” “Cash on the nail?” asked Dubby, whose forebears came from Scotland. He distrusted Sam in the character of capitalist. “Oh, yes,” explained the candid Sam. “You see, when I met Lance yesterday I said I’d think of a way out of the difficulty and I came prepared.” “I vote we take it,” said Sandy. “I can buy a lot of tools with a pound.” “I don’t see why we should pander to your vices,” said Lance. “We’re still a Club and this is club money.” “The Club is dead.” “Not yet. Not till we’ve killed it gloriously on Sam’s sister’s fiver. There’s a hell of a bust in five pounds and we have to drink the bride’s health. Champagne’s my drink.”