They were exchanging ideas in an off-hand and
light-hearted manner, the only stipulation being that the ideas must
be new; for, by some unwritten law of the club, the conversational
currency was liable at any moment to be called in.
This evening, however, they had hit on a topic almost virgin from the
mint.
"S.K.R.? _Who_ is he? _What_ is he?" said Mackinnon.
"I can't tell you what he _is_; but I can pretty soon tell you what
he's not," said Stables. He was a very young man with a white face and
red eyelids, who looked as if he sat up all night and went to bed in
the day-time, as indeed he generally did.
"_Omnis negatio est determinatio_," murmured Jewdwine, without looking
up from the letter he was trying to write.
"What has he done?" persisted Mackinnon.
"He's done a great many remarkable things," said Rankin; "things
almost as remarkable as himself."
"Who unearthed him?"
"I did," said Rankin, so complacently that the deep lines relaxed
round the five copper-coloured bosses that were his chin and cheeks
and brow. (The rest of Rankin's face was spectacles and moustache.)
"Oh, did you?" said Maddox. Maddox was a short man with large
shoulders; heavy browed, heavy jowled, heavy moustached. Maddox's
appearance belied him; he looked British when he was half Celt; he
struck you as overbearing when he was only top-heavy; he spoke as if
he was angry when he was only in fun, as you could see by his eyes.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38