evenings a little graceful supper of broiled kidneys was usually
discussed by the members of the club. Saturday was their grand
night; not but that they met on all other nights in the week when
inclined for festivity: and indeed some of them could not come on
Saturdays in the summer having elegant villas in the suburbs, where
they passed the six-and-thirty hours of recreation that are happily
to be found at the end of every week.

There was Mr. Balls, the great grocer of South Audley Street, a warm
man, who, they say, had his twenty thousand pounds; Jack Snaffle, of
the mews hard by, a capital fellow for a song; Clinker, the
ironmonger: all married gentlemen, and in the best line of
business; Tressle, the undertaker, etc. No liveries were admitted
into the room, as may be imagined, but one or two select butlers and
major-domos joined the circle; for the persons composing it knew
very well how important it was to be on good terms with these
gentlemen and many a time my lord's account would never have been
paid, and my lady's large order never have been given, but for the
conversation which took place at the "Bootjack," and the friendly
intercourse subsisting between all the members of the society.

The tiptop men of the society were two bachelors, and two as
fashionable tradesmen as any in the town: Mr. Woolsey, from
Stultz's, of the famous house of Linsey, Woolsey and Co. of Conduit
Street, Tailors; and Mr. Eglantine, the celebrated perruquier and
perfumer of Bond Street, whose soaps, razors, and patent ventilating
scalps are know throughout Europe. Linsey, the senior partner of
the tailors' firm had his handsome mansion in Regent's Park, drove
his buggy, and did little more than lend his name to the house.
Woolsey lived in it, was the working man of the firm, and it was