III

After Ellis had had the correct drink in the private bar up the passage
at the Turk's Head, and after he had plunged into the crowd and got lost
in it, and submitted good-humouredly to the frequent ordeal of the penny
squirt as administered by adorable creatures in bright skirts, he found
himself cast up by the human ocean on the macadam shore near a
shooting-gallery. This was no ordinary shooting-gallery. It was one of
Jenkins's affairs (Jenkins of Manchester), and on either side of it
Jenkins's Venetian gondalas and Jenkins's Mexican mustangs were whizzing
round two of Jenkins's orchestras at twopence a time, and taking
thirty-two pounds an hour. This gallery was very different from the old
galleries, in which you leaned against a brass bar and shot up a kind of
a drain. This gallery was a large and brilliant room, with the
front-wall taken out. It was hung with mirrors and cretonnes, it was
richly carpeted, and, of course, it was lighted by electricity. Carved
and gilded tables bore a whole armoury of weapons. You shot at
tobacco-pipes, twisting and stationary, at balls poised on jets of
water, and at proper targets. In the corners of the saloon, near the
open, were large crimson plush lounges, on which you lounged after the
fatigue of shooting.

A pink-clad girl, young and radiant, had the concern in charge.

She was speeding a party of bankrupt shooters, when she caught sight of
Ellis. Ellis answered her smile, and strolled up to the booth with a
countenance that might have meant anything. You can never tell what a
dog is thinking.