’Gentlemen,’ called out the rubicund chairman, rapping on the table, ’silence, if you please. Mr. Aikman is about to favour us with a new song written by our recently-elected member, Mr. Ronald Strang, the music by our old friend Mr. Jaap. Silence—silence, if you please.’ Mr. Aikman, who was a melancholy-looking youth, with a white face, straw-coloured hair, and almost colourless eyes, stepped on to the platform, and after the accompanist had played a few bars of prelude, began the song. Feeble as the young man looked, he had, notwithstanding, a powerful baritone voice; and the air was simple, with a well-marked swing in it; so that the refrain—at first rather uncertain and experimental—became after the first verse more and more general, until it may be said that the whole room formed the chorus. And from the very beginning it was clear that the new song was going to be a great success. Any undercurrent of reflection—or even of sadness—there might be in it was not perceived at all by this roaring assemblage; the refrain was the practical and actual thing; and when once they had fairly grasped the air, they sang the chorus with a will. Nay, amid the loud burst of applause that followed the last verse came numerous cries for an encore; and these increased until the whole room was clamorous; and then the pale-faced youth had to step back on to the platform and get through all of the verses again. _’So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,_ _Another glass before we go!’_ roared the big skipper and Jimmy Laidlaw with the best of them; and then in the renewed thunder of cheering that followed— ’Man, I wish Kate Menzies was here,’ said the one; and— ’Your health, Ronald, lad; ye’ve done the trick this time,’ said the other. ’Gentlemen,’ said the chairman, again calling them to silence, ’I propose that the thanks of the club be given to these two members whom I have named, and who have kindly allowed us to place this capital song on our permanent list.’ ’I second that, Mr. Chairman,’ said a little, round, fat man, with a beaming countenance and a bald head; ’and I propose that we sing that song every night just afore we leave.’ But this last suggestion was drowned amidst laughter and cries of dissent. ’What?—instead of "Auld Lang Syne"?’ ’Ye’re daft, John Campbell.’ ’Would ye hae the ghost o’ Robbie Burns turning up?’ Indeed, the chairman had to interpose and suavely say that while the song they had just heard would bring any such pleasant evenings as they spent together to an appropriate close, still, they would not disturb established precedent; there would be many occasions, he hoped, for them to hear this production of two of their most talented members.