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"That's the fetish of the club," said Malim, pointing to a barrel standing on end; "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."
Presently, however, we saw one, laid for four, at which only one man was sitting. "Hullo!" said Julian, "there's Malim. Let's go and see if we can push into his table. Well, Malim, how are you? Do you know Cloyster?" Mr. Malim had a lofty expression. I should have put him down as a scholarly recluse. His first words upset this view somewhat. "Coming to Covent Garden?" he said, genially. "I am.
He tells me of their wooing by serenades at the window, and that their friends do always make the match; but yet they have opportunities to meet at masse at church, and there they make love: that the Court there hath no dancing nor visits at night to see the King or Queene, but is always just like a cloyster, nobody stirring in it; that my Lord Sandwich wears a beard now, turned up in the Spanish manner.
The street door opened on to a staircase, and as I mounted it the sound of a piano and a singing voice reached me. At the top of the stairs I caught sight of a waiter loaded with glasses. I called to him. "Mr. Cloyster, sir? Yessir. I'll find out whether Mr. Malim can see you, sir." Malim came out to me. "Hatton's not here," he said, "but come in. There's a smoking concert going on."
He tells me of their wooing by serenades at the window, and that their friends do always make the match; but yet that they have opportunities to meet at masse at church, and there they make love: that the Court there hath no dancing, nor visits at night to see the King or Queen, but is always just like a cloyster, nobody stirring in it: that my Lord Sandwich wears a beard now, turned up in the Spanish manner.
James Orlebar Cloyster exactly the same service as you and Blake. And I'm getting money from him, too." "Serpose I oughtn't ter 'ave let on, that's it, ain't it?" from Tom Blake. "Seemed to me that if one of the three gave the show away to the other two, the compact made by each of the other two came to an end automatically," from myself.
I am Margaret Goodwin. A week from today I shall be Mrs. James Orlebar Cloyster. It is just three years since I first met James. We made each other's acquaintance at half-past seven on the morning of the 28th of July in the middle of Fermain Bay, about fifty yards from the shore. Fermain Bay is in Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for many years at St. Martin's in that island.
"I have assumed, you will see, that the play is certain to be produced. But that will only be so if you adopt it as your own," "Claim the authorship, and all will be well." "I will," I said. I packed up the play in its brown paper, and rushed from the house. At the post-office, at the bottom of the King's Road, I stopped to send a telegram. It consisted of the words, "Accept thankfully. Cloyster."
Then he got into the way of taking me down to a Boys' Club that he had started. Terrors they were, so to put it. Fair out-and-out terrors. But they all thought a lot of the Reverend, and so did I. Consequently it was all right. The next link in the chain was a chap called Cloyster. James Orlebar Cloyster. The Reverend brought him down to teach boxing.
A very amusing muddle, with lots of doubles entendres, and heaps of adverbial explanation in small print. That sort of thing. I had it typed, and I said, "Price, my boy, there's more Mr. Cloyster in this than ever Mr. Cloyster could have put into it." And the editor of the Strawberry Leaf printed it next issue as a matter of course.
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