* * * * *
A SCENE AT THE CLUB.
I never liked Buttinbridge. I considered him a vulgar and pushful fellow.
He had thrust himself into membership of my club and he had forced his
acquaintance upon me.
I was sitting in the club smoking-room the other day when Buttinbridge came
in. His behaviour was characteristic of the man. He walked towards me and
said in a loud voice, "Cheerioh, old Sport!"
I drew the little automatic pistol with which I had provided myself in case
of just such an emergency, took a quick aim and fired. Buttinbridge gave a
convulsive leap, fell face downwards on the hearthrug and lay quite still.
It was a beautiful shot--right in the heart.
The room was fairly full at the moment, and at the sound of the shot
several members looked up from their newspapers. One young fellow--I fancy
he was a country member recently demobilised--who had evidently watched the
incident, exclaimed, "Pretty shot, Sir!" But two or three of the older men
frowned irritably and said, "Sh-sh-sh!"
Seeing that it was incumbent upon me to apologise, I said, in a tone just
loud enough to be audible to all present, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen.
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