in a club. If he chose to take up “gun-throwing” or garrotting, there was always a score or two of hefty servants to deal with him; but in a man’s home, with wives and daughters present, well——! So Jim’s meteoric social ascent went no farther than that. Even Cholmondeley, who was his eternal debtor, never took him to house parties. Jim had introspection enough to see the barrier.

It was towards the end of winter that Jim created a commotion which was nearly the cause of his being “blackballed.” But for the intervention of his considerable circle of admirers, who believed his action to be justified, and threatened to resign en bloc if the matter were not quashed, Jim would have shaken the dust of the Huntingdon from his feet.

It was in the afternoon, and a trio of men were seeking for a fourth to make up a card party. Seeing Jim lounging on a settee they invited him to join in. He rather reluctantly assented, for one of the players was Meredith, a man he disliked 45 intensely, which dislike was thoroughly reciprocated.

They played all the afternoon, and Meredith won steadily. He talked a lot about his abnormal luck, but one man present seemed to be constantly on the fidget. Jim had been weaned on cards in a place where gambling was the salt of life, and “tinhorns” were as plentiful as mosquitoes in summer. He kept his eyes on the slim, nimble hands of Meredith, and what he saw did not please him.

Meredith was in the middle of a deal when Jim suddenly flung his cards across the table and stood up.

“I’m through with this,” he growled.

The other players gasped, and Meredith’s brow contracted. By this time the room was full of members lounging and talking before dinner. The tone of Jim’s voice suggested that something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” asked one of the players.

“I don’t like the deal.”

Meredith leaped from his chair.

“Do you dare insinuate....” 46

“I don’t insinuate nothin’. I jest ain’t playin’ this hand.”

Claude came behind him.

“Careful, Jim,” he whispered. “You are making a very serious accusation.”

Meredith came across and stood within a foot of Jim’s taut face.

“Mr. Conlan,” he said, “I am waiting for an explanation.”

“Where I come from,” said Jim grimly, “men who slip cards that way are lynched on the nearest tree.”

A gasp came from the company. Never in the history of the club had anything like that happened.

“You liar!” snapped Meredith.

Jim’s hand came out. His fingers buried themselves in Meredith’s shoulder, till the pale face winced with pain. His great body tightened up and his eyes were like cold steel. No one had ever called him “liar” before. It aroused all the innate fury within him. The other hand was drawn back to strike—and then he remembered. He gave an almost pitiful 47 grunt and released his grip. Cholmondeley and a few others dragged him away.

“Conlan,” said Claude, “you oughtn’t to have said that. It isn’t done.”

“There’s no way out,” whispered Cholmondeley. “You’ll have to apologize.”

A dapper little man, a bosom friend of Meredith’s, hurried forward, bristling with indignation.

“You have grossly insulted a member of this club, sir. We demand an apology,” he said.

“Better apologize,” whispered Claude.

Jim was trying to be a “gentleman,” but the word “liar” from the lips of a card-sharp had pierced the thin veneer that a few months of sophisticated environment had brought about, and scratched into the coarser material beneath. Restraint went to the winds.

“Apologize!” he roared. “Apologize to a swindling tinhorn? I should smile!”