University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

THE CLUB SUPPER.

—Adams.

Time passed on, and the boys continued
in their occupation. But circumstances soon
developed the character of each. Henry's
studious disposition sought in the home of
his employer the pleasure of his leisure
hours. With his companion, William Abbot,
he still pursued the studies commenced at
school, and daily progressed in the attainment
of knowledge. Richard, on the contrary,
launched out into all the follies of the
class to which he belonged. His was the
heaviest cane that rattled in the pit of the
Federal Street Theatre; his was the straitest
ball on the Washington Garden alleys. Dick
was a connoiseur in the art of good living—
on a small scale.

Probably it would have been a rich sight
to a Washingtonian of the present day, to
have seen the inside of a room of one of our
crack hotels, one night in 1820, when the
jolly W. R. C.—which, being interpreted,
meaneth Wharf-Rat Club,—were met for a
spree. A dozen youths, from fourteen to
eighteen, seated round a table, on which the
rosy wine and the steaming punches sent up
their vapors to mingle with the smoke of cigars
that rolled in circling clouds to the ceiling.
Here, with his head placed in his
neighbor's lap, reclined a young gentleman
upon three chairs, with a brimming glass of
flip, with which he was performing the praise
worthy feat of drinking without putting his
nasal organ in his tumbler. There, with his
legs at an angle of forty-five degrees with
his head, sat another, testing with a straw
his powers of suction, upon a glass of whiskey-punch.
At a side-table, four more were
engaged in a game called whist, but the volleys
of oaths and the shouts of laughter that
came from them, evinced that it deserved
aught but that title. At the head of the table,
with a goodly array of glasses and bottles
for a body-guard, sat Richard Martin,
president of the W. R. C. Dick had striven
hard and long for the high honor which he
had now attained; a black eye, twelve bottles
of wine, and a box of cigars, had been
the price of the dignity, and the expense of
electioneering. But it was gained—he was
installed, and this was the election-spree.

Dick was in his glory, and his wit poured
out like the sparks from a black-smith's anvil.

“Hip, hip, hurra!”

“Hurra!—that's the ticket. Come, Dick,
let's have a song!”

“A song, boys; yes—hurra—a song; come
Fred., you 're the poet-laureate. Strike up.”

“Well, here goes!”

“Well, now, that's what I call nice,” said
a promising young man, dressed to the top
of the fashion, as he stretched out his hand
to the decanter. “It's wine that makes the
verse run—hey, Dick”

“Yes, I endorse that. By the way, boys,
did you hear of my scrape with the Charlies
the other night, eh?”

“No—let's have it. Hurra for Dick Martin's
scrape with the Charlies!”

“Well, you see, boys,” said Dick, filling
his glass, and casting a knowing look round
the table, “I was going along Common street
—let me see—yes! last club night — yes,
that was the time—”

“Never mind the time, Dick, let's have
the story.”

“Don't interrupt, gentlemen! I was
walking along Common street, and just as I
got to Brimstone corner—Jupiter! the tightest
piece that ever I saw appeared before me.
I gave chase, caught up with her, and peeped
under her bonnet; she smiled; I said `good
evening;' she smiled again. Says I, `my
dear, shall I see you home?' and run my arm
though hers. Blazes! she set up such a
scream I thought the steeple would come
down. I began to sheer off, when a Charlie
(I suppose he had been asleep on Brimstone
steps) placed his paw on my shoulder, and—”

“What did you do?”

“Do! why, damme! I stuck my fist in
his mug—unclasped my cloak-collar, wound
it round my arm, and streaked like lightning
over the fence on to the Common.”

“Chase you?”

“Did he—yes! and the way he ground out
the music warn't slow. There they were
—half a dozen of them—after me, and I
lining for the Back Bay. But just as I reached
Charles street wall, damme, if a posse
didn't start up, rattles, hooks, and all, to intercept
me—I bolted over the wall into the
burying-ground, and there I lay, snug as a
bug—never catch a Charlie to enter a grave-yard!”

“So you escaped, Dick?”

“Yes!—But let's have another horn.
There, you, Frank Block, where's that bottle
I won of you at nine-pins?”

“On hand, Dick—but let's finish the
whiskey. Here, waiter, more cigarros—

“Fred., what will you have? wine?”

“No, gin; that's the true and literal
wisdom.”

“How 's that, Fred?”

“Why, nothing's plainer; wisdom is
Minerva and gin is my nerver!”

“Ha, ha, ha! a pun—kick him out!—ha,
ha, ha!”

A knock was heard, and the waiter entered—

“A gentleman wishes to see Mr. Martin.”

“Ask him—d—n it!—ask him, you
booby—hullo! there, come in.”

The door was thrown wide open, and,
much to the president's discomfiture, Henry
Fowler walked in. Dick was up in a moment,
and, catching Henry by the arm, led
him out and closed the door.

“Richard, this is bad!”

“Why you see, Harry, they 've elected
me president of the society, and this is the
election-supper: that's all, Harry.”

“What society?”

“Why—why—the—the—Boston Literary
Society!”

“Oh, is that all. Well, Richard, don't
get into bad habits—you know Mr. Abbot's
strictness. But what I came for is—that
package, that I gave you to hand to Captain
Jones; he has not received it.”

“Oh, yes! I forgot, really! Harry, you
won't speak to the old man, will you?—you
see—”

“No, no! never mind—I'll take charge
of it. But don't be so negligent in future,
Richard!”

“Will you? you're a glorious fellow,
Harry; mother always loved you—you're
so kind—”

“Well, no matter, Richard. Good night!”

“Good night!”

“Who the devil was that?” asked Fred.
Johnson, as Richard returned.

“A d—d pimping, prying fellow-clerk
of mine—I'll smash his head some time!
Hurra! boys! let's have another drink all
round, and then, hey for the theatre. There's
a new piece, and besides that—keep dark!—
tight enough—I've seen her—just from New
York. Show your bottoms, gentlemen!”

“Drink!—hurra for Dick Martin!”

Drink, drink, my boys,

Drink, drink, my boys!

Think not of the morrow!