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The new member was game. “Well,” he said, without a trace of nervousness; “what’ll you have?” The choice fell upon breast of lamb. The secretary asked for iced tea. Endymion, more ruthless, ordered ginger ale. When the ginger ale came, Lawton, still waggish, observed the label, which was one of the many imitations of a well-known brand. “The man who invented the diamond-shaped label,” said Lawton, “was certainly a pathfinder in the wilderness of the ginger ale business. This ginger ale,” said Lawton, tasting it, “is carefully warmed, like old claret.”

The club sought to keep their host’s mind off the painful topic of viands. “Sitting here makes one feel as though he ought to be going to take a train somewhere,” said one. “Yes, the express for Weehawken,” said the vivacious host. From this it was only a step to speaking of Brooklyn. The secretary explained that the club had outlined a careful itinerary in that borough for proximate pursuit. Lawton told that he had at one time written an essay on the effect of Brooklyn on the dialogue of the American drama. “It is the butt end of Long Island,” he cried, with cruel mirth. Lovers of Brooklyn in the club nearly blackballed him for this.

With ice cream and cottage pudding, the admirable menu proceeded. The waiters conferred secretly together. They carefully noted the cheerful carving of the host’s brow. They will know him again. A man who bursts in suddenly upon a railroad lunch counter and pays for three such meals, here is an event in the grim routine! But perhaps the two charter members were feeling pangs of conscience. “Come,” they said, “at least let us split the ginger ale checks.” But Lawton was seeing it through. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as our host to the cashier we hurried. The secretary bought a penny box of matches and lit the great man’s cigarette for him. Endymion, equally stirred, ran to buy the ferry tickets for the return voyage. “This time,” he said, “I will be the ferry godmother.”

On the homeward passage a little drowse fell upon the two charter members. They had lunched more richly than was their wont. “Oh, these distressing, heavy lunches!” as Aldous Huxley cries in one of his poems. But Lawton was still of bright vivacity. At that time the club was perturbed by the coming Harding-Cox election. “Which of the vice-presidents are you going to vote for?” he cried, and then said: “It looks to me like Debs or dubs.”

Endymion and the secretary looked at each other solemnly. The time had come. “I, Endymion,” said the chairman, “take thee, Lawton, to have and to hold, as a member of the club.”

And the secretary tenderly pronounced the society’s formula for such occasions: “There is no inanition in an initiation.”