He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. “Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi very extra special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?” “I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a route-map of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his glass. “Phew!—what an atmosphere!” “We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. “I’m on the house committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_—you know Templeson—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard—says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap—second-hand dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see—” “There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, Starkey, before anybody else collars him.” Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye. “Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. “Crowfoot, Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see you!” “Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said Spargo. “Here, I’ll get him myself.” He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. “I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a pandemonium.” Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. “Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What is it, Spargo?” Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as any man writing about ’em?”