‘Oh, don’t do that,’ said Sir Charles soothingly. ‘It was hard lines, but we shall see you a prize-winner one of these days. Now, Mr Cunliffe, what have you to tell us?’ ‘I failed,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe, an elderly cleric who specialised in broad-mindedness. ‘Plausible strategy, but disappointing results. Nothing of interest to report.’ ‘Did you do any better, Mr Matthews?’ Mr Matthews was a man of forty, bald, round-faced, rubicund, and slightly obese. The task of ordering the club dinners and the wines to be drunk therewith was always left in his hands with a confidence which was invariably justified. His knowledge as an epicure was considerable, and it is possible that his intelligence was less considerable, but more than once he had been lucky in a competition. He was the richest man in a club where nobody was very poor, and was good-tempered and popular. ‘Well, you know,’ said Matthews, ‘I feel as if I ought to have won this. At one time it looked as if I simply had it chucked at me. I was talking to Lady Amelia, who does a lot in the East End and is always nosing round for subscriptions. ‘“Why do you men drink?” she asked in her blunt way. ‘The question of this competition occurred to me, and it looked like a good chance. ‘“Well,” I said, “the pleasure begins in the palate, but I fancy that it continues in the throat. I often wish I had a longer throat.” ‘You would have hardly thought she could have missed it, but she did. Said that she was sure I was not so bad as I made myself out to be, and milked me of a fiver for some rotten “good cause.”’ ‘Look here,’ said Major Byles, returning from a fruitless visit to the side-table, ‘I’ll ask the chairman for a minute’s interval. They’ve not put out any seltzer, though they must know that I always take seltzer with mine.’ ‘Certainly, Major; certainly. Would somebody kindly touch the bell?’ The seltzer-water was brought and business was resumed. ‘Your turn next, Jimmy,’ said Sir Charles. The Hon. James Feldane, a rather weary young man, said, ‘Well, I claim to be a winner, but there’s a shade of doubt about it, and I’ll ask for your ruling. All I can say is that if I don’t touch the money my luck’s even worse than the Major’s. Like him, I was systematic about it. My first step was to buy some of the highest collars that could be got for money—two inches or so too high for me and beastly uncomfortable. I put one of them on, and looked like a bad freak—something out of a back number of _Punch_. My next step was to call on my married sister. She told me to go home and dress myself properly, as I knew she would. So I asked in my innocent way what was wrong, and she said I seemed to have mistaken my neck for the Nelson Column. ‘“Alluding to my collar?” I said. “Well, I like plenty. I’d wear a collar three feet high if I could.”’