"and I'll introduce you to the man who is sitting on it. He's little
Michael, the musical critic. They once put on an operetta of his at the
Court. It ran about two nights, but he reckons all the events of the
world from the date of its production."

"Mr. Cloyster--Mr. Michael."

The musician hopped down from the barrel and shook hands. He was a
dapper little person, and had a trick of punctuating every sentence
with a snigger.

"Cheer-o," he said genially. "Is this your first visit?"

I said it was.

"Then sit on the barrel. We are the only club in London who can offer
you the privilege." Accordingly I sat on the barrel, and through a
murmur of applause I could hear Michael telling someone that he'd first
seen that barrel five years before his operetta came out at the Court.

At that moment a venerable figure strode with dignity into the bar.

"Maundrell," said Malim to me. "The last of the old Bohemians. An old
actor. Always wears the steeple hat and a long coat with skirts."

The survivor of the days of Kean uttered a bellow for whisky-and-water.
"That barrel," he said, "reminds me of Buckstone's days at the
Haymarket. After the performance we used to meet at the Cafe de
l'Europe, a few yards from the theatre. Our secret society sat there."