He had half a mind to spend it at his club, the
Junior Journalists', in the side street over the way.
Only half a mind; for Mr. Rickman entertained the most innocent
beliefs with regard to that club of his. He was not yet sure whether
it belonged to him or he to it; but in going to the Junior
Journalists' he conceived himself to be going into society. So extreme
was his illusion.
Mr. Rickman's place was in the shop and his home was in a boarding
house, and for years he had thought of belonging to that club; but
quite hopelessly, as of a thing beyond attainment. It had never
occurred to him that anything could come of those invasions of the
friendly young men. Yet this was what had come of them. He was
friends, under the rose, that is to say, over the counter, with Horace
Jewdwine of Lazarus College, Oxford. Jewdwine had proposed him on his
own merits, somebody else had seconded him (he supposed) on
Jewdwine's, and between them they had smuggled him in. This would be
his first appearance as a Junior Journalist. And he might well feel a
little diffident about it; for, though some of the members knew him,
he could not honestly say he knew any of them, except Rankin (of _The
Planet_) who possibly mightn't, and Jewdwine who certainly wouldn't,
be there. But the plunge had to be made some time; he might as well
make it now.
From the threshold of the Junior Journalists' he looked back across
the side street, as across a gulf, at the place he had just left.
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